Remember the Hunters
by DarkAkatsuk1
Summary: It was the Ailment that brought him to Yharnam. It was the Hunt that gave him purpose. It was the Dream that bound him in chains. In the end, it was his student who granted him Salvation. In this new world, he continues his Hunt. Allies will be met. Enemies, made. And the Hunters… Remembered. Glory to the Shattered Moon.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Bloodborne nor do I own RWBY.

* * *

The End of a Dream…

* * *

On the hill of spectral flowers, within the confines of the Hunter's Dream, there was a dance.

A dance of conflict, a dance for dominance… a dance 'til death. The two participants, a wizened old man and a young woman, moved with extraordinary grace, their macabre movements carving the surroundings without resistance. Arced siderite clashed against threaded steel, swift force was repaid with nimble momentum, and aged blood was exchanged for new blood. Two beings fought to the death, humanity notwithstanding, with monstrous skills that put to shame the most legendary of warriors.

And surrounding them aside from the flowers were weapons and firearms long abandoned by previous dreamers. Weapons upon weapons of all kinds plagued the battleground of flowers. These Trick Weapons serve as memorials to their wielders, who have found their worth in the waking world. Whether it was of their free will matters not anymore.

For the caretaker of this Dream killed them all himself.

He wore the ancient uniform of an Old Hunter, heavily tattered by the time, but instead of a wide-brimmed cap, he wore the feathered, tricorned hat of the standard Hunter set. Blood long dried covered their entirety, turning them into the pitch black that is most favorable during the night hunt. A dirty, frayed scarf covered his lower face, obscuring the wrinkles that have grown upon his countenance. Hanging from his neck was his mentor's badge, a fang-shaped artifact that had no purpose other than to romanticize the past, and honor the will of the Old Hunters.

Despite his age, he fought and acted with a savagery that can only be found in beings that have ascended beyond their origins. He swung an antiquated scythe, his late mentor's personal Trick Weapon, at his adversary. Hazy, pale blue eyes traced the girl's dodges and pivots, his timeworn mind already creating new tactics with incomprehensible speed. At the same time, just as she did, he shifted his body alongside hers, swinging the scythe behind and breaking it apart in a fluid motion, one hand quickly reaching behind for Evelyn and firing without preamble. The discharge from Cainhurst's adored firearm was met with the girl's own shot, a barrage from a Repeating Pistol. One bullet met Evelyn's and disintegrated it upon contact. The other traveled towards the man, who brought his blade up and split it vertically into perfect halves, the divided projectiles flying past him.

He slammed his weapon back onto its long handle, transforming it back into a scythe. His opponent triggered her threaded weapon back into a cane, stepping back in hesitation. In trepidation.

He frowned and leapt into the air. The Old Hunter's scythe is filled to the brim with arcane power, which the old man discharged with a powerful swing. Wind explosions rang across the field, the petals from the flowers surprisingly still intact. She dodged and weaved through the destruction and weapons stabbed into the ground, her faded cloak fluttering from the displaced air as she does so. Her Threaded Cane shifted back into tendrils and was swung at subsonic speed towards him midair. He shifted his scythe to the side, blocking the whip-like motion that ripped through the air from scourging him. Then, using the space between the many small blades to grip against the shaft, he pulled, using his falling weight as an anchor.

Her grip failed, and the Cane dropped into a mess on the ground, lost amongst the littered memorials of weapons. Evelyn was drawn once more and aimed at her head. They stood still in silence as the gun cocked unflinchingly.

"It is over yet again, Young Hunter," the man rasped out again, having had this conversation already. "For your sake, just accept my mercy. You can finally end this Dream and return to the Waking World."

"I don't want to," was her stubborn reply. Just like the last… how many times.

"Is that truly your decision, or is it obligation that tells you to refuse?" He growled. "What is it that makes you want to resist, to continue fighting? Do you want _freedom_? If you simply give up in this ordeal, you can have it." She shook her head. "If not freedom, then _peace of mind_? There is no peace in resisting me and seeing what I have seen. Perhaps it is _truth_? You have already seen it all, the truth of this nightmare."

He scoffed when she shook her once more.

"Then why do you persist? Is it _love_?"

A blush appeared underneath her hood, but just like before, she shook her head.

At last, he snapped, "Then why?! I do not understand!" The ornate pistol trembled in confusion in his hand. "There is no meaning or purpose in winning this battle. I know you are insightful enough to see that! Your eyes have long opened to the truth, that to gain any more power is to abandon everything you cherish! So why do you continue this charade!?"

There was not a moment of hesitation in her reply. She stared back at him with determination.

"Because I _choose_ to."

It was such a simple answer that he had forgotten how to react. Even though he expected her to take action once more, even though he anticipated a counterattack that would make him work his body again, he did not, however, expect her to headbutt the barrel of his gun to the side and bite his hand.

Taken by complete surprise by the reckless – nay, _suicidal_ – action, Evelyn dropped from the bitten hand. She quickly grabbed the gun and shot his leg at point-blank range. He dropped to his knees in silent pain, and she dropkicked him away from her. Away from where her Cane lied.

Quickly recovering from the assault, and adjusting to using only one leg, the old hunter grabbed the Burial Blade and transformed it into a scythe once more. Two can play at this game of unexpected tactics. In one smooth motion, the scythe was raised not to strike, but to throw. It homed in towards his target like a boomerang. Her head almost flew off, only scratching her neck as it phased past her. She moved back in a series of handsprings and backflips, away from her weapon. He closed in on her with a burst of speed, one hand clutched into a fist and the other protruded into a claw.

His fist met her head, pushing it back in a violent show of force. His claw was positioned, and then lunged towards her in a visceral attack. At the very last minute, her body twisted. No, not twisted. It was as if her entire body spiraled around his outstretched arm, like a snake would to its prey. The prodigal show of dodging allowed her to strike him, kicking his injured leg with one leg, and the other meeting his head in vengeance for what he did to her head.

But he wasn't done yet. His clawed hand shot out, before she could dodge again, and grabbed her by the collar. He slammed her to the ground and sprinted, dragging her against the ground along the way while being sure to crash her against any debris that happened to be in the way. Then he jumped, spun in the air with her in tow to gain momentum, and threw her like a child would skip a pebble on a lake towards the giant tree and smashed her against it. The Young Hunter slid down like a stringless marionette and then, was still.

The Old Hunter took his time moving to his weapon, taking his eyes off of his pupil. That was a mistake. It would be the last mistake he made. His hands reached out to the Burial Blade to grasp it… and then in a flash, he found his hand wrapped about in tendrils of edged steel. No, not just his hands. The threads were everywhere: his arms, his torso, his legs, nothing was left untouched.

The Young Hunter had retrieved her Threaded Cane beside the tree, which in his trance he had forgotten about. Now he found himself at her mercy, the splintered cane threaded around him like a trapped animal.

But even when death now had him in its grasp, he smiled.

"Well done."

Hesitation… then she pulled. Serrated edges carved deep into his body. Blood spilled onto the ethereal petals. Finally, his ancient body gave out and he fell onto his back. The Burial Blade dropped away from his limp hands, its duty fulfilled. The Old Hunter Badge, once hung like a necklace, flung itself away from him.

Within the span of his fall, his thoughts drifted back into the past. When he succeeded Gehrman as the proprietor of the Hunter's Dream, he knew what he was getting himself into. There will be others who will seek the same cure for the same affliction he had so many years ago... decades ago... _centuries_ ago... the time mattered not anymore. Time continued, and as it passed, others came.

Whatever their reasons, he did not know nor did he bother to find out. The Hunt welcomed all, and it welcomed them most graciously in its own twisted way. And as the Hunt continued, obstacles arose. The beasts grew more restless. They began to learn and adapt. What was better off unknown was dug up and remembered. And by the end of it, many desired to wake up from the accursed Nightmare.

He did not blame them. The horrors witnessed in the Hunt would break the mind of any sane person who was unprepared for what was to come, leaving them more than happy to forget everything when they reached the end of their journey. Others were either sympathetic to his plea or had other plans for themselves and refused his offer of mercy, attempting to take his position instead. Each time they woke up again in the Dream to combat him once more, he showed them no mercy until they tired and ultimately submitted themselves.

And after so many years, one finally succeeded; one who had many titles. The most prominent was the first title he bestowed on her: Young Hunter.

Dressed completely in a faded white-hooded cloak that covered her entire being from head to feet, wielding the bloodied cane that she had slain him with, she stood, her once upright posture replaced with a loom that could only be found in one mourning in grief. The many badges she collected in the Dream hung meaninglessly on her cloak, the very same ones he had once collected in his mission through the Hunt himself. She had bested him in mortal combat. For the first time in so many years, he poured his entire self into this "hunt", and he was bested.

Finally, he had lost.

Still, he had to know.

"Why do you cry, Young Hunter?"

Pain did not enter his aged voice, laden with nothing but curiosity. Like him before, this Hunter did not speak much. Tears trickled down her face, obscured by the hood that she consistently wore over her head. Her lips trembled, silent sniffles came out involuntarily, and her hands on her Threaded Cane slackened as she lost the determination she possessed when they fought.

"You have done nothing wrong to me. If anything, you have freed me, taken the mercy I offered you and graced it on me instead. So why do you cry?" Her whimpers grew in volume as he spoke words of comfort to her, to no avail. He continued, "Is it not an act of kindness to let an old man like me rest in the end? Is it not good? Is it not just? Or is there another reason you have chosen to mourn after this terrible Hunt?"

She collapsed on her knees next to him. The Young Hunter finally allowed her emotions take over, her sobs filling the vast emptiness of the Hunter's Dream. Through it, he did not speak. He had no more words to give, only awaiting the answer to his question. When she finally regained some semblance of composure, she looked at him.

Clouded blue orbs studied the tear-stricken eyes.

"I couldn't save you."

He stared blankly, uncomprehending. Why would she believe that? Was that why she chose to fight?

"I did everything I could. _Everything_!" she cried. "All I wanted to do was help everyone. Everything I did, it was to save them. But anything I did, it only killed them in the end!"

"You have helped me. You have helped the Doll... gave her a name. You have helped many more." He consoled her. "The Hunt is cruel, Young Hunter. But in the end, death is merciful when compared to the horror the Nightmare shares to us Hunters."

"Not like this…" she shook her head vehemently, "I didn't want it to end like this. I wanted everyone to be happy. I wanted Simon to be the one to survive the Hunter's Nightmare and gain his peace. I wanted Eileen to fulfill her duties as the Hunter of Hunters and retire without remorse. I wanted to get to know Djura more. I wanted Queen Annalise to know what happiness really is. I wanted the poor Chapel Samaritan to make friends. I wanted to console Gascoigne's daughter and make sure she was safe. I wanted… I only wanted…"

Her hood fell back in her rant, reveal medium-length black hair streaked with red. Red… like roses. Once, they had filled his dreams, and they had been meaningless. Now, he understood what they meant.

"I only wanted everyone to be happy."

A utopian ideal. A beautiful wish even… if only it was not so foolish.

"Real life is not like the fairy tales and bedtime stories we were once told." He spoke the harsh truth. "Reality would never allow that. Only a handful of people will ever achieve a happy ending… just not these people. The Great Ones already had their wretched hands grasping onto them before you met them."

"I know!" She shouted with emotion. Once again, more weeping. "Then at the very least, I just wanted one person to make it out of here with a happy ending." Her hands left her weapons to reach for his chest. Despite everything that had happened, he noticed that her hands have no calluses.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He did not know when it came to him, but it came. Realization finally hit him. His tired eyes widened. At last, he understood.

Of course. He had forgotten this... simplicity.

It had been so long since he... no, this must be the first time he had met such an individual, one who had great wrongs done to her when she had done nothing for them to be her fault. She had fallen to the lowest point many times with nothing and no one to help her get back up. Many times she had 'died' and returned to the Dream, and many times when she tried to do good, she only got hurt physically, mentally, and emotionally as the world spat at her kindness.

Yet, even after everything she had gone through, she did not grow bitter and angry, nor did she lash out at the world like so many of his other previous Hunters had in her place. She would break down and cry from time to time, but soon she wiped her tears and moved ever forward. She may not know it, but that took even more bravery, more strength than he could ever achieve, let alone display. She never allowed what had happened rule and define her, and continued being who she was, while he forced himself to warp, to change and adapt to his surroundings as his insight grew.

She was a simple soul when she first walked into this Dream Refuge, and she was still that same simple soul as she sat by crying for him, for someone who did not deserve it.

"I'll make this all right. I promise…" She bowed her head onto his body, uncaring of the blood that marked her forehead.

"…Hnheheh." It was ironic, really. He remembered now. It was for that very reason that he did not want her to be in his place, why for the first time in a very long while, he placed everything into his resistance.

She _deserved_ more than this… but if this was what she wished, then he can do nothing more than to accept it now.

The night, and the dream, were truly long.

He struggled onto his feet. It was a challenge to even stand, what with the wounds he had accumulated. She saw this and made to support him. She had thought that he was making his way back to the wheelchair, or to reclaim his weapon and continue the bitter confrontation. Then she saw that he was moving towards the place the Old Hunter Badge landed when it disconnected in his fall.

He kneeled slowly and picked it up. The badge he claimed when he laid his teacher to rest. "My role as the caretaker of this Hunter's Dream…" He slowly spoke, feeling his body fade away into dust. He held out the Badge, "My legacy, passed onto me by my mentor, Gehrman himself… it is yours now."

She stared at the dangling, fang-like emblem in his hand with an expression he cannot decipher with his fading vision.

"Whether you wish to take up this mantle, or destroy it, is all up to you."

Hidden, cracked lips smiled softly into those silver eyes. They would be the last thing he saw in this life. His legs gave away.

"Just be prepared… for what is to come…"

And finally, he breathed his last as his vision turned white.

* * *

 **XxX**

 **PREY SLAUGHTERED**

 **XxX**

* * *

…He felt coldness.

He had never known what death was like. Many times, he had been snatched away from its embrace and back into the Dream, where he would continue his duties as a Hunter and slay beasts, all while continuing forth to find his way to the Waking World. It was only at the end that he decided against it and chose to take Gehrman's place instead.

So why was it getting colder by the second?

"GET UP!"

His eyes opened wide. Snow. Snow everywhere. Snow even harsher than the frigid cold that surrounded Cainhurst Castle. So bright, he had to shield his eyes. "Huh? What?" He whispered in a bewildered voice.

"Get up! Do you want to die from the cold?!" The same voice called again, and he felt himself get pulled up. The Burial Blade was pushed into his hands, "Up and at them, lad!"

What… what was going on? Where was he? How did Gehrman's Trick Weapon come into his hands? His eyes wandered to find information. So much snow covering his sight, but he could make out a port. The buildings in his immediate surroundings were of foreign nature and were caked with rime, complimented by the layers upon layers of chilling frost swirled around him like a cloak. It was then he noticed his attire: it was his original Hunter uniform, when he was once known as the Good Hunter, but pristine. Unruffled. Instead of its usual black, it was as white as the snow that was buffeting him. No signs of bloodstain or any proof that it had seen battle with the Scourge. It bothered him to be in such untainted clothes, but this bafflement was interrupted again.

"Are you daft, boy?! Move along, or we will depart without you!"

Boy? He hadn't been called a boy in so many years. What was this rascal talking about? Come to think of it, his body felt lighter. Much lighter than his frail body should be feeling at the moment.

"I don't know what is going on." His voice too. It did not have the rasping tone that had developed with his advanced age. His confusion must have been mistaken for dullness by the man.

"You have a weapon. You came to the docks that will bring you to Vale and assist us in the war effort, and then we found you sleeping nearby. Make the connection, quickly! Now come on, we have war to end!"

He grimaced, but acquiesced to the rude attitude for the moment. He boarded the ship… no, it was too big to simply be called a ship. More like a barge, he corrected. With that out of the way, he intended to find out what was happening to him, as well as what was happening in this world that required his attention.

The man had talked about a war effort. _War_. Memories of a forgotten war that was his budding time, and the foundation that begun his Hunter training, sprung into his mind. The only glaring difference was the anachronism. The war he had once fought in and emerged a military veteran had long passed and was a blur to him, due to the vast amount of time he spent in the Hunter's Dream. This war… he knew it was something else. "Vale" had no meaning to him, and it also did not register in his mind as the name of any places he could remember.

A horn was sounded, and the ship began to depart. He felt the panic in the air, which was stemmed well, but he predicted that if nothing was done, there will be people jumping ship.

* * *

It had been three days since the departure from the frigid lands. The trip had been uneventful if he had anything to say about it, save for the rather impressive speed the ship was traveling at. The most that had happened was an unfortunate fellow who vomited into the ocean when there was a sudden lurch in sea elevation. Otherwise, the Hunter kept to himself and responded minimally when he was spoken to. He did notice that whenever he was spoken to, it was mostly about his opinions on the war.

He had dodged the questions, responding distantly with well-hidden sophistry. He needed to know what was going on first before he could give a proper opinion, and he had the feeling that if he said something wrong, he would be in severe trouble.

…Well, not in as much trouble as now.

The Hunter was greeted with a thunderous explosion.

Along with those distant pastures were big guns. Artilleries that were meant to destroy fortresses were aimed at the carriers and ships that approach the shore. They shook the ship the Hunter was on, along with the multitude of ships that were stationed about the ocean. Cannonballs and shells flew left and right as nearby ships retaliated against the shores with their own sets of heavy metal fragments.

The conscripts panicked. Few managed to keep their fears under control. The others were not as lucky, abandoning any forms of décor and searched hysterically for a way – any way – to leave. Some had even jumped the ship already. He did not blame them… or rather, he did not care for them, because his attention was turned towards one man in particular.

Amidst the chaos, that man stood upright, unflinching.

" _ **ATTENTION!**_ " That same man called out in a fierce voice, quelling the panic instantly. The Hunter finally noticed the uniform that he was wearing: a military uniform of great significance. A white great coat with faded epaulettes draped over his broad shoulders along with complementary combat pants, and a peaked officer's cap was perched upon his shaved head, bearing a motif he was not familiar with; the symbol of a spear protruding through a cog-like orb, which was encircled by sectioned parts to make out another circle.

The emblem that signified his country or kingdom, he surmised.

"You are wondering why I would choose now to address you all. You are wondering why you had been called here when you are only simple laborers. You are wondering why we are not turning to our soldiers instead. You may think that this is not your war, and thus not your concern, so you wonder about this all." The high-ranking officer paced about the boat, spacious as it is. Despite the roar of the distant ordnances, his voice carried through like the guttural growl of a lion. "The short answer: We look out for each other. But I'm sure that's not what you all want to hear."

He immediately stopped and gazed at each and every person, on the ship and in the water.

"I can see the fear in your eyes." The Hunter looked around and confirmed it. He could see the inexperience in their face, the fear in their eyes, the trembling in their legs... the wet stains on their pants only added to it. Some even looked like they were about to faint. Most of them, if not all, were nothing more than pups. "I tell you because I too feel that fear you all feel. Even now, as I speak, I wish nothing more than to step off this boat and wish that this war would end."

There were voices of agreement to the official's admittance, but he quickly quelled them with his next words,

"But I choose to stand my ground. I choose to fight. Which is why I ask of you: what people are we if we cannot fight for those we cherish?"

The fear was gone now. Even those who had jumped ship paid rapt attention to the man. The Hunter was impressed at the show of words that continued,

"Look at the horizon. You are far away from home now, where that town, the infrastructure, the paved roads, and the very ship you stand on came from. The great city that our ancestors built with their hands through sweat, blood, and ice. Stone by stone. Step by step. In the frigid landscape of Solitas, there were no means of sustainability, yet they persevered. Mantle is the magnum opus that our ancestors paved with their hands so many years ago. With Mistral's aid, we had grown from a mere handful of individuals into a nation that could rival the other kingdoms in size within a single generation."

He stared at his captivated audience. His stern visage became a vitriolic snarl as he turned his attention towards the ocean.

"Now look at the land we approach! The continent of Sanus! That is where our enemy kingdoms, Vale and Vacuo, lie! That is where the good men of Mantle have given themselves to protect the kingdoms of Remnant! And if we falter now, the sacrifices they made will all be for nothing!" The fury in his eyes had become physical at this point. "Is that what you wish for? For this kingdom to crumble at the hands of Vale and Vacuo? If not, then to be scourged by the hands of the Grimm?! You would have everything that had stood against all resistances FALL?!"

The anger in his words was infectious, spreading like a virus, like an inkblot on a blank canvas. Yet, for all that anger, it gave the conscripts clarity. A furious kind of clarity. As one, they howled their answer.

" _NO!"_

"That is right! We are the descendants of heroes who tackled the unknown, and lived! And we will not let their efforts be in vain." The anger vanished and was replaced with solemnity. "Make no mistakes, men and women of Mantle. Lives will be lost. There is no glory in taking another life, in spilling blood for the greater good. But in the face of ignorance, it is our ordained duty to root it out before it devours us all. That is why-"

Once more, the anger returned.

"We will storm the coasts, and we will _fight_!"

They had nothing to say but were compelled to speak. Thus, they repeated what was most prominent.

 _"FIGHT!"_

"We will fight for the men who lost their lives on foreign soil!"

 _"FOR OUR MEN!"_

"We will fight for the comrades who died by the hands of ignorance!"

 _"FOR OUR COMRADES!"_

"We will fight so that all the fighting that has been done will not be for nothing!"

 _"ALL OR NOTHING!"_

"We will fight... because we must."

This time, there was silence. The solemnity of the last statement silenced the anger. Reigned it in, but it was still palpable, still present. It was merely waiting to be unleashed once more. Like a bottle of wine, as time passed, the intensity grew.

The man turned his back to the soldiers and spread his arms wide to the heavens.

"Hear my words, gods! I am Jason Ironwood, Commander of Mantle! And as long as I live, Mantle – nay, _Remnant_ shall not fall!" The man drew a pistol and fired it into the air. A flare flew. Not one person flinched at the thunder it created. As if in response, another thunder resounded from the horizon, and a speeding object flew at the ship. Its target: the Commander himself.

The commander, now named Ironwood, lowered into a stance, feet grounded against the ship's deck, and then _punched_. In a moment of extraordinary feat, he predicted the trajectory of the deadly projectile, and made contact with the ball of reinforced steel with nary but his fist. The nearby water imploded in a great geyser of mist, for all to witness. It reinforced their will and steeled their determination, for they realize that they are in the capable hands of a great leader.

Morale was at an all-time high. Glory was within reach, and none shall deter them from claiming it.

"THE TORCHES HAVE BEEN LIT! MISTRAL CALLED FOR AID, and MANTLE – SHALL – ANSWER!"

The following roar was deafening. Bloodlust. Pride. Wrath. Resolve. Powerful emotions of all kinds gathered under the banner of nationalism. Once, the crowd was composed of mere pups, but in a matter of minutes, they had grown into raging dogs of war. Not a bad speech at all. If anything, the general had a flair for the theatrics and knew his words.

The Hunter couldn't help but feel wholly impressed with this moment of glory. A good leader was one who inspired those under him to surpass their limits. A showcase of power was a demonstration that all of them would have to undergo, for physical strength went hand in hand with the power of the voice. But what really stood out to him was the physical endeavor the commander had displayed to him and everyone around him.

The man had _punched_ a flying cannonball. All senses and experiences screamed at the physical impossibility he had just witnessed. The man's hand should have turned into paste, or at least be crushed into a mess of broken bone and sizzled flesh. Instead, in that split second the commander punched the mass of iron, he swore there was a shimmer of white between the ball and the fist. And yet, none of them were shocked; rather, it served to empower them.

Nevertheless, he could respect that ability – to be able to rally men and send them onto a warpath with nothing but words.

The overpowering charisma of the speech aside, there are some terms that he needs to concern himself with: Vale, Mantle, Vacuo, Mistral, Remnant... Grimm. None of them had any meaning to him, nor was he aware of their purpose.

The ship made contact with the land, and as if to rush into battle, everyone charged off with a roar, a forgotten fury resonating in their soul. Those who had jumped ship swum and emerged from the ocean like fallen warriors of the past. Amidst the bloodlust, the Hunter charged alongside them until he was sure that he can slip away from the blitz.

The forest these… Manteleans had charged into, it served as a good camouflage to flee into. He had no obligation to fight with them, or anyone, as of yet. He was not as easily roused as they were onto a warpath by mere words. Once the cries were no more than a whisper to his ears, he relaxed and began his plans for what to do during this event.

This war, he amended. This _Great_ War.

In his time alone in the Hunter's Dream, with no one but the Doll to keep him company and all the knowledge he had come across in the time he traversed the dilapidated ruins of Byrgenwerth, he studied and pondered the nature of man, and came to many conclusions. What connected all of these conclusions together was the concept that no matter how long time has passed, life will always find a way to create frictions between one another.

For all that it was worth; mankind was a force of conflict. No amount of knowledge, intelligence, and wisdom will ever change that.

…Plus, this was not his war, he must repeat to himself. Not his battle to fight. His time had already passed. His story was already told. Yet, for reasons he had yet to decipher, he had returned to the mortal coil. Now he must know why that had come to be.

The Hunter continued to make plans. The most obvious thing to do first was to find out where exactly he was. He knew that he was on this "Remnant", and that days ago, he had just left a place called Mantle. Now, he was on the continent known as Sanus. The distant flicker of a lost memory told him that it resembled what used to be, or resembled, his home before he left it. The lush forest, the thriving wildlife, and the vegetations that spread across his view; life was abundant and fresh.

It almost brought a sense of fond nostalgia before it was squashed away.

Next was… his name. He had no memory of his name. Perhaps once upon a time, he could recite his name as if he was taking a breath of air. Time had eroded that memory into nothing more than a stray whisper that would never come to him.

But still, he needed something to call himself by. The sight of snow when he first opened his eyes came into mind. The unrelenting chill that threatened to freeze his blood. The nevermelting rime that clung to the buildings and the clothes of the people about. The frost that rivaled the blizzard that surrounded Cainhurst. Frost…

Frost. That shall be his name for now. One problem solved.

There was still something he needed to confirm. Back when he appeared in this world, it was a concern he did not address.

Slowly, Frost took one of his gloves off to look at his bare skin. It was free of wrinkles. Just as slowly, he lifted the glove-free hand to feel his facial features. It felt just as young as the look of his hand. It couldn't be…

He quickly made his way to a stream and glanced down. His hair was still as white as the time he resided in the Refuge, but he was young again. Not a wrinkle can be seen upon his countenance. That explained why he felt so rejuvenated.

He let out a sigh he did not know he was holding. What an ordeal.

* * *

A day had passed since Frost left the forest, and it was nighttime once more. There was a village ahead, but instead of relief from the journey, it brought back memories of the Hunt that alerted him.

There was no life. Bodies littered the road. Some were too mangled to make out any defining features. Some had markings upon them that couldn't have been made with human hands or weapons. No, this was an attack brought forth by beasts… but there was also evidence of human activity that spurred the beasts into attacking as well. After all, fire was man's invention, and could not be imitated by beasts. And fire was prevalent among the ruins.

The fire must have caused a panic, and in that very panic, these beasts took that opportunity. Slowly, Frost walked into the village. Then he was no longer in the village.

He was in the sewers of Yharnam again. Vermin hid in the shadows, but their rotten stench permeated the air. He blinked, and he was back in the village. Its smell could never compare to the sewers, but it was enough to trigger that memory. And his next sight only made it worse.

He knelt down to the corpse of a little girl who could not be any more than seven. The image of Gascoigne's daughter superimposed itself onto the body.

He remembered accepting that little girl's music box to give to her mother.

He remembered returning her the red brooch that belonged to her deceased mother.

He remembered hearing out her older sister's panicked request to find her.

…He remembered seeing the girl's torn body beside that giant pig.

That defiled swine.

 _ **Beast.**_

As if to confirm that statement, beasts began to leap into his view. They broke through the burning huts, dug out of the bloodied soil, and jumped from the dense foliage of the forest. Blackened animals roared, hissed, growled to gain his attention.

Soulless red eyes, burning with abyssal hatred for mankind, met aquiline orbs, cold and otherworldly. The forms of masked wolves, bears, boars, and other wildlife animals prowled about and around him as if to make him panic. To make him fear them. To make him do something idiotic.

He did none of the above.

 _ **Wretched Filth.**_

Rage lit up in his mind. It shot its murderous impulses through his nerves, screaming at him to slay the beasts that dare pollute this world. It was a living thing, this agonizing emotion. But still, he quelled it. He reined it in and controlled it like an expert wrangler on a wild horse. He accepted the miasmic intent, enhancing it. Taming it. Rage was harnessed with purpose, and with it came strength. His hands reached for their respective weapons, the Burial Blade and Evelyn primed and ready to kill, and took a neutral stance, legs shoulder-length apart and arms wide open.

As if accepting the beasts with open arms. As if mocking them.

The first was a group of wolf-like animals, too bipedal to be a wolf and more along the lines of a werewolf. Two of them charged at him from the front and behind. A third and fourth one sprinted towards him at the flanks, and the last leaped into the air. He was effectively surrounded, waiting to get shredded on all sides.

His right arm bent back and swung with extreme prejudice at the beast in front of him. The prized weapon cleaved through its victim like a knife through butter, and using the momentum of the swing, he turned his entire body like a whirlwind and hacked at all of his targets and with expert, both on ground and midair. Their deathly wails only served to empower him.

Evelyn was aimed under his right arm after butchering a reptilian-like beast and fired into the head of a towering bear, its carcass collapsing after a moment of slow, instinctive steps. A larger, more horned variant of the bear howled gutturally and stood upon its hind legs to slam the earth, intent to disorient Frost's steps. The ground shook, but the Hunter didn't. He had leapt towards the ursine beast before its paws met the dirt, and in a fitting scene of violence, the blade was slammed forcefully into its cranium, its head splitting apart gruesomely.

Rolling sounds alerted him to three black balls bowling towards him. He wrenched his weapon out of the beast's head and flipped over one of them. In midair, he fired Evelyn point-blank. It continued rolling until it stopped and died, revealing its form as a boar with large tusks. The other two boars squealed in anger and attempted to gut him down in a reckless charge–

From the skies, a giant crow – larger than the carrion crows that populated Yharnam – rained down feathers like a gatling gun spray, attempting to mow him down with rapid pseudo-firepower. Frost maneuvered through the shower and watched the two boars get killed by the offending projectiles, now becoming wary of the attack happening again. That simply will not do. The bird must die, but he has no way of attacking it. Evelyn was capable of killing at long range, but the bird would dodge before the bullet could reach it.

Patience, it is then. He decided to use the bird's ranged attack to his advantage. Noting how it neglected its kin and targeted them as well, he continued to dodge and swerve amongst them, the crow providing overhead munitions unintentionally for him. The following howls of pain delighted him to the core. Their emasculated and pierced forms gave him a reason to continue. Their tainted blood spilt onto him drove him into near ecstasy as it rejuvenated him.

But that was only a small part of his mind. Anger and wrath towards the beasts reigned supreme above them all.

Soon, the bird learned that shooting sharp feathers at its target was a waste of resources and allies, and dived down to pierce him with its beak, soaked with the blood of its previous preys. Frost was prepared. There were fewer ground enemies to take note of, by the ordeal of feathers, so he slammed the blade into the shaft behind him and transformed it into its scythe form. He crouched into a high stance and took in a deep breath. At the near moment the crow's beak would make contact with his torso, he released his breath in a burst and bent entirely backward.

The beak brushed the tip of his nose and his goal was revealed: the underside.

The Burial Blade entered its sternum and was immediately slammed upwards into the crow's body. Momentum would kill the bird for him, as it kept its vast bulk moving. His grip was strong and steady, harder than the iron that was eviscerating the crow like a surgeon's razor through skin. The laceration opened further and further, blackened ichor spilling out like a fountain onto the ground. At last, the scythe left its prey, and the bird's organs spilled out in a gory fashion.

The crow screamed in agony and tumbled briefly on the ground before fleeing haphazardly. Seven wing beats. Seven tormented flaps and it fell from the sky in the distant trees ahead, black smoke releasing a few seconds later to announce its death.

Frost stood up and walked towards his remaining targets, a hardened killer's cold visage encroached upon his face. The beasts responded in kind and charged once more. They did not know when to quit… or rather, they did not how to run away. Dodge to the left. Turn around and use the built-up momentum to reap the monsters like wheat. Duck under the swipe of a large paw. Fire Evelyn under the chin and out the head.

Dodge. Swing. Reap. Transform. Duck. Fire. Sway. Leap. Lunge. Reload. Kick. Thrust.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

As he continued this wholesale butchery, he faintly noted many key facts… few, he amended, since they were more or less along the lines of the beasts he knew. They bled like the others, but upon death, their corpses disappear as if they were mere shadows. He knew that because the pile was simply not building up.

Soon, it occurred to him that there were no more of these beasts. Still, he kept the Burial Blade out, ready to kill any more that dared to attack him. Evelyn was cocked and ready to fire if needed.

No more came.

Slowly, with practiced ease, he sheathed Evelyn back in its scabbard and hanged the Burial Blade on his belt latch next to the firearm. The folded shaft hung onto his back once more. He looked up at the night sky and felt his breath hitch.

Another anachronism, and a _very_ serious one. What on earth happened?

The beautiful moon was in pieces.

His bloodlust ebbed away at the sight. Lowering his head, he gazed coldly at the fading forms of these damned beasts, and then sorrowfully at the people they murdered. Too many graves to dig, too many people who could have done more. He picked up his tricorned hat from the ground, which had flown off sometime during the battle.

"…No matter the ages passed, nor how long time marches, the night brims with defiled scum…"

No rest for the wicked. Yet, another Hunt begins anew.

* * *

 _Already, everything has changed._

 _Initial conditions have been altered by minuscule additions to the world. Just one little change, and like a double pendulum rod, everything has been thrown into utter chaos._

 _The incoming cascade of possible and impossible actions and reactions will be beyond the scope of even the most gifted of minds on Remnant. Nothing can ever tell them of what is to come. But perhaps it is only because they mistake it for a complex equation to solve, an intricate mind game to play, an esoteric duel of fate to win, when the solution is actually quite simple._

 _They say a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world. If so, then the traits of a single person are enough to derail countless numbers of grand, far-reaching schemes._

 _The will of a single man is enough to dictate the course of history._

 _And when hope is lost to all…_

 _Perhaps all that is needed is a simple soul to give it back._

* * *

 **-DarkAkatsuk1, starting a new story**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer** : I do not own RWBY, nor do I own Bloodborne. They belong to their respective owners, and even if I did own them, I would practically make the plot stagnate. I mean, I still don't know what Monty Oum envisioned in RWBY, so anything I come up with would never truly be "RWBY".

* * *

Establishing the Origin

* * *

Frost felt conflicted.

He had tried for the past few hours to make contact with the Hunter's Dream, to no avail. All Hunters who Dream have an innate connection to the Refuge. That connection extended beyond the mind and senses, to the point that it was as though they developed a metaphorical sixth sense. It only became stronger once he became its caretaker, as it was bound to his will.

But for the connection to suddenly be severed... could it mean that the Dream was no more? That the Hunt was finally over?

A part of him rejoiced. No more will the Beast Plague torment mankind. No longer will the mistakes of the Healing Church come to haunt the future generations. With certainty, the nightmare of Yahar'gul will never plague the earth. The other... felt sorrow. If the Dream was gone, then that meant the Doll has passed on. His student has passed on into the forgotten annals of history. With no more purpose to uphold, they would both vanish with the Dream.

He realized he never gave the Doll a proper farewell. Never took the time to give her a simple glance when he felt her presence appearing in the field of petals. His only comforting thought was that the Young Hunter was there for her 'til the end, and that she could finally rest.

Still, another thing bothered him. How exactly did the Hunter's Dream become severed, if that was truly the case?

A low growl and a weak struggle underneath his foot interrupted his thoughts. He corrected that mistake by pressing the beast's head against the ground with said foot, slowly applying more force to crush its skull until it popped out black brain matter. Like all the other beasts, it disappeared into black dust. It appears that even with all four limbs severed away, the beasts will continue pursuing mankind. The thought sickened him. Agony was simply not enough, it seemed.

Perhaps it wasn't a good time to look back into his memories. He still needed to make sure there were no casualties.

Frost was lucky this time. He had arrived at this particular town the very moment the damned beasts decided to attack. Before the beasts arrived, the villagers had been wary of him at first. He noticed their eyes traveling on his clothes, so it must have been either the blood on them or the style of the clothes that notified them of something else. Then, they saw the monstrosities approach, and that wariness was replaced with panic. That panic, he managed to deduce, enticed the beasts and they began to appear and attack in larger numbers.

It did not matter to him. He killed them all anyway.

He approached the locals who were beginning to leave the safety of their houses when they realized the howls of the beasts were no more. Their eyes were still wary, but they were mixed with awe. He had expected them to see him as nothing more than a demon draped in human skin, or a horrid beast mimicking man most blasphemously.

What he saw on their faces caught him off guard.

It was awe towards a savior who saved them from their doom.

It was awe towards a hero who managed the impossible.

It was awe towards a miracle in the form of man.

To him, there was nothing awe-inspiring about slaying beasts. It was simply a routine.

Soon, there was a crowd amassing to see the man who fought alone against these beasts. One of them finally approached him.

"Are… are you the one who killed the Grimm? The one who saved us all?"

Grimm? So that was what the locals call the beasts. He nodded. Then he turned around to exit.

"Wait! Where are you going? We haven't–"

"There are more of them, waiting for you to drop your guards." His interruption silenced the crowd who were murmuring at his sudden leave. "I'm going to find them, and I'm going to kill them. In the meantime, continue doing what you've all been doing."

He ran towards the filth-ridden scent of these… Grimm.

* * *

The town was once more vibrant with life by the time Frost returned from the bloodied task. Just as last time, the beasts attempted to ambush him to no avail. At least there was no damned giant crow to contend with this time. Dodging not only took time but also wasted his time when there were so many to slay.

Enough of that, he shook the thought. He turned his eyes towards the crowd.

The children who had once been panicking were running down the streets in play again. The merchants and stallholders were selling their merchandises in full display again. Gossips flew in the air again. There had not been music, but now the bards and minstrels had picked up their flutes and mandolins to sing and compose their newest inspired songs. However, he could still see their wariness, their hesitation when he met their eyes. That was fine with him.

The Hunters were never appreciated in the first place. On the night of the Hunt, Hunters were rarely offered charity by noncombatants, what with the former fighting against the Beast Plague and the latter being paranoid of becoming infected. Hunters were at best treated indifferently, and at worst outright scorned by the common folks. The reasons varied, and few pertained to the belief that the beasts could still be "saved" and cured of their beasthood.

Hunter Djura was adamant in this belief that despite being far gone, the beasts were still human and thus, were still meant to be protected. A worthy opponent, he was, but there was simply no other way. Frost could believe that the beasts were still human, but the Hunt was relentless and he had his own quest to complete.

In the end, death was the beasts' only salvation from the horror they became.

…But these were not the same kind of people, were they? Instead of fear from the display he had acted out, there was hope. Instead of repulsion, there was acceptance. Earlier, they had been in awe instead of horror. This dissonance baffled him. Were these Grimm not like the beasts he knew? The primal instinct to shed blood was shared by the two, but…

No, he was beginning to overthink again. He needed to stop that. The Grimm's were like the beasts, and at the same time, not like the beasts. Simple and clean, and if he wanted to add more, he can do so later.

"Sire?"

He did not respond initially but did so when he realized no one else was answering. It was a boy about ten years old in clothes made of finer material than the worn out tunics he saw on the townspeople.

"F- the mayor would like to meet you."

An eyebrow rose.

* * *

He approached the oaken doors that led to the mayor's room. The messenger boy opened the door for him and bowed him in. Frost took the time to observe the room he was invited into, ignoring the door closing behind him.

The interior decoration was not what he had been expecting of from a mayor's room, of whom he could remember faintly would embellish their own office if given the chance. The walls were bare, and there was minimal decoration. Looking at it from a practical perspective, he could see the value in this Spartan treatment. There was no need for luxuries in the line of duty.

Frost's eyes finally landed on the mayor, who sat at his desk with closed eyes. He was a short and portly man with a large mustache that entirely covered his mouth. Gray hair had entirely dominated his head, cut in a peruke-like fashion. With that hairstyle, the man looked like he could be a statue of a bust with the way the wig-like hair complemented his mustache and the manner his eyes remained, determinedly still and closed.

"So, our local savior graces my office." There was relief, and not a single hint of duplicity, in the man's voice. There was a wiggle in the man's mustache. "Welcome, welcome! Please, have a seat. I'm afraid I cannot provide refreshments at the moment. The Grimm had stretched my hands at that moment."

"No need." Frost found himself adjusting to the near-cordial atmosphere, taking off his hat to indicate so. Near, because it felt like the man was forcing himself to be cheerful for appearance's sake. He sat on the offered chair. "Is there a reason you would bring a Hunter into your home?"

He placed slight emphasis on his title. There was something he needed to confirm, and the man's following response would help him ascertain some clues he desperately needed.

"Other than to meet the man who singlehandedly saved Fort, the town I was placed to oversee? Yes, of course. But a hunter, are you? I don't know many hunters who can deal with a group of Grimm like that. In fact, I believe you are the first," the mayor nodded approvingly. Not much reaction from the title, he quickly noted. "Ah, where are my manners? I am Mayor Port. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure's mine. You can call me Frost." The Hunter shook hands with him. "Now, back to business, if you would?"

"Hmm. I would have liked to trade words more, but as you wish." The mayor stood up and walked to the large window that provided a clear view of the entire town. "As you may well know, the war we are in has caused us all great pain. Many men from this town have gone to enlist into Vale's army, or have taken their family to hide within the refuge of Vacuo's sands."

Frost kept his ignorance on the subject to himself, making sure to note keywords in the man's speech and to pay attention to the important parts of the speech. The latter started when he heard something about a shortage of cabbages and canola oil and... he did not want to know more about that particular subject. But "Vale" and "Vacuo" did come up again, and from the context, they must be the names of these Kingdoms he was hearing about.

And there was also his suspicion that the Hunters were no more. That was both a good and bad thing. Good, in that he had confirmation the Beast Plague does not exist, or exists no more; bad, in that the ordinary folks do not have any form of protection against these Grimm beasts.

"And now, the occupants of this town are the elderly, women, or children. Only one other man beside I remain here, and he is our only form of protection. As it is, the town I swore to protect in my oath as mayor is in peril. And I cannot continue to protect them all on my own."

Frost kept respectfully quiet, counting down before speaking.

"And what would you have me do?"

The mayor opened his eyes. Frost realized that the man's eyes had been closed this entire time. He did not know why this surprised him.

"I wish for you to be this town's second protector," he announced. Frost raised a brow at the statement, beckoning the man to continue, "I do not intend for you to be unrewarded, however. Money, land, food, whatever it is you desire. I ask that you keep this town safe. With the war happening, not only are the Grimm becoming more active, but bandit activities have begun to rise as well. We've lost contact with town after town ever since Mantle arrived on the shores of Sanus, and with negativity at an all-time high-"

"Calm yourself, Mayor. You are hyperventilating," Frost interrupted, holding a hand up in the universal sign to stop, for the man's sake. The portly man had begun to sweat profusely and was showing symptoms of a heart attack. "Some may not be as charitable, and will take advantage of the situation you are in."

"I am at my wits' end, hunter Frost," the man whispered aggrievedly. Still, he nodded his acknowledgment at the mistake. "I know I am asking too much, but I cannot see any other decisions but to beg for help from an outsider, someone who may very well have nothing to gain here. Resources are dwindling each passing day, supply sorties are becoming rare occurrences, and my people are beginning to lose morale. It doesn't help that this war has done nothing but tear families apart. Even… even my son is not exempt from this."

Frost looked at the door he had arrived through earlier. It had opened slightly some time during the meeting. He pretended not to see the eyes of the child that escorted him here and looked back at the man who calmed down somewhat.

"You have another child?"

He nodded resignedly at the slip of admission. "My eldest son. Two months ago, he left with the rest of the men. I… I continue praying to whatever deities Remnant has that he is safe."

He could understand the man's pain. To constantly fear for one's own blood being hurt and being unable to do anything about it. It is taxing on the mind and can cause overwhelming fatigue physically. Perhaps the weight in the man's belly was not because of spoiled upbringing and or mindless inadequacy, but a means to distract himself from the crushing thought?

Looking carefully, he saw that the mayor's arms were built in the correct places that indicated some form of training. Perhaps he was once a woodsman proficient with an axe? No matter.

He could accept the man's offer, but what good would it be? He did not exactly know the demographics of the continent, so he could not be aware of whom the main protectors of the land were. Plus, choosing one village over another did not sound like an optimal choice. There was a reason why Hunters were never idle, that reason being that wherever beasts are, Hunters are as well.

And as far as he was concerned, beasts lurked everywhere, even amongst man.

"I'm afraid I cannot accept that offer, Mayor. However," he interjected before Mayor Port could say anything, "I can offer another service instead. So long as weapons, armors, and whatever munitions can be provided, I can give proper training to your people."

There was hesitation. "But, you are a hunter."

Frost smiled dryly. "No, Mayor. I am a _Hunter_. Not the hunter of wildlife and gatherer of food that you are thinking about." He stood up and slowly drew out the Burial Blade, making sure not to make the man panic. He raised the blade at a wall, where an ornamental piece of a Grimm wolf's head hung. "We Hunters dedicate ourselves to pursuing all that pose a threat to our land in an everlasting Hunt. To this end, we search for beasts. End them, before they devour men. Slay them, before they kill more. Slaughter them, until they are extinct."

Just as slowly, he sheathed the weapon and gazed back at the mayor, whose attention was undivided. "Vermin, the lot of them." He threw an insult at them. It seemed to raise the heavy atmosphere the Good Hunter had inadvertently created, as the mayor gave a small chuckle. "You do not have to worry, Mayor. The training regime of a Hunter is… brutal, but I will make sure that by the end of it, all of the trainees will know what to do when you are attacked by beasts once more."

Port shook his head, "I do not want to bring the children into this. I may wish for the safety of this town, but at the expense of the innocence of the young'uns?They should stay innocent until the proper time has come."

Frost raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about the children."

He spoke the words like a teacher subtly giving clues for his student to figure out an unstated answer. It did not take long for Port to figure it out, and from the looks of it, he did not look too enthusiastic.

"You intend for the women to fight instead?"

"Why not? Women can be equally as accomplished as men if they put in as much effort. One of my mentors was a woman, and even if I have grown much since we last met, I still do not wish to test my steel against her." Thoughts of Eileen the Crow were followed by the Young Hunter. "Women are strong, Mayor. Do not forget that."

Mayor Port's eyes scrutinized the choice presented to him. Finally, "It is traditionally the men's duty to assume the role of the protector."

"Then perhaps it is time tradition is broken. For the sake of the next generations to come."

"If that is the case… I shall allow it. I accept your offer, Hunter Frost." The mayor placed more significance on the title, if not out of respect, then out of diplomacy.

Yes… this choice sounded far better. While he cannot permanently settle down, he can bring the people here into enough shape to withstand the tide that would be coming. Enough time would be saved, and while he did not have to be there to oversee their training, so long as they continue the regime he would have them do on a daily basis, he was sure they could at the very least survive a bandit raid.

"With that out of the way, there is one more issue to speak of."

This time, the mayor looked wary, if not concerned.

"You are not from here. You are not Valean."

Frost nodded in confirmation

"You are Mantelean."

He shook his head.

"Then, Mistralian?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Then where are you from? Your uniform does not appear to be of Valean or Vacuoan origins."

Frost's eyes blanked. Truly, now would be a good time to know where he came from. Even if he did know…

"Where I am from does not matter anymore. It is gone."

He gave a morose answer. Even if it wasn't a full truth, it wasn't a full lie either.

"I see. I'm sorry for bringing up bad memories," the mayor apologized. He waved it away and stood up alongside the man.

"I cannot linger here forever, Mayor," Frost reminded the man. "Be sure to call for volunteers who are willing to risk themselves and have them be awake at daybreak. Call the hardiest of the bunch. If there are young'uns who wish to train alongside, let them. They can use the exercise, but they won't be doing the main course until they are older. I will stay here until I am sure that your people can fend for themselves. Then I will leave and hunt beasts once more."

He closed his eyes to rest it briefly. "Until that day comes, you have my word that for as long as I am here, not a single drop of blood will be spilled by beasts."

He made his declaration and oath clear with conviction. The Mayor appeared marveled by the proclamation, and it was most likely from that marvel that the man said the next five words,

"You are a hero, Frost."

Hero. The word had no meaning to him. It was a word that he knew he would never define himself as.

"I am no hero, Mayor. Just a Hunter fulfilling his duties.

"Then a damn good Hunter you are," the mayor acquiesced with the correction. The Hunter felt a smirk forming under his scarf at the ironic title. Good Hunter. It felt good to hear that nickname again.

"But if I may suggest something?" Frost nodded at the man's inquiry. "Perhaps you should change the title into something that would not confuse others? Like "Huntsman", say?"

The smirk became a smile. The man was learning quickly with his prose. "It would make no difference, Mayor Port. A Hunter must hunt. A "Huntsman" will undoubtedly do so as well."

Though he will admit, it did make the distinction very clear.

* * *

The Hunter felt concerned. It was early morning, and that did a lot to affect his current temperament.

Yesterday, the Mayor had given him a new set of clothes to replace his current wardrobe, given the fact that the once pristine white clothes were too dirty, frayed, and bloodied to be considered adequate wear. He had not seen the problem at first, but reflecting on it, bloodied clothes were not exactly the best to be in when making an impression. Thus, he acquiesced with the Mayor's request until his gear was cleaned up or repaired back to peerless condition.

His new wardrobe was actually pleasant to be in; a white linen tunic and black spandex-like pants, complete with leather straps bound with ropes where he could hang his weapons from. His scarf and hat were put to the side to be cleaned with his own clothes. It was a surprisingly practical gear, which he would thank the mayor for later. But that wasn't his concern at the moment.

Normally, concern meant that he was in a situation that warranted caution or was proceeding too smoothly for his liking. For things to go well meant that there was a catch, and more often than not, he had been punished for that. But that was not why he felt concerned.

It was not the fact that there were no men amongst the crowd gathered before him. It was not the fact that the women gathered did not look appreciable for being awakened at such an ungodly hour. It was not even the fact the mayor, his young son, and a small crowd of non-volunteers decided to stand by and observe him fulfill the task he imposed on himself.

No, it was because the majority of the women present had… extra features. Ears of dogs and cats hung on top of their head. Horns and antlers similar to that of deer, goats, and bulls jutted out of others' heads, and other articles like scales, whiskers, tails, claws, and fangs dotted the rest. It was nearly surreal, and absolutely horrific to him.

 _ **Beasts.**_

He closed his eyes tightly to clear the abhorrent whisper from his mind. The only reason he did not slaughter them the moment he laid eyes on the animal traits was because they did not show open aggression towards him. Fear, yes, but none of them spat or lashed out like the beasts he knew. Again, he felt the dissonance and differences of this world press on him.

Not his world, he chanted the mantra to himself once more.

Frost released a heavy breath. The women took this as a sign of disappointment and made their indignation clear to him: by banding together and collectively scolding him for calling them out just to insult them. Already an unpopular person within a span of a few seconds; he would have to put that award next to managing to score consecutive headshots to Micolash, the slippery bastard. No amount of deductive and inductive reasoning, no matter how arcane and eldritch, will take away the fact that it was exceedingly annoying to chase after a dead man with what was essentially a birdcage on his head.

He took the scolding in stride. He intended to clear the misunderstanding anyways.

"I apologize. It is morning and you have other things you would like to do instead, and like a fool, I somehow insulted all of you. For what it is worth, I am sorry." His apology seemed to appease them. For now. The reprimanding desisted, but he felt that if he did not continue, it would continue later on.

"Alright, Mr. Hero. Mayor Port announced any able and volunteering women to attend your sessions. So here we are. What do you want?" A rather aggressive question from one of the animal women, but it wasn't something he couldn't deal with.

"Not a hero, a Hunter..." the Hunter mumbled automatically. He cleared his throat, "I was asked by the mayor to provide training to whoever would volunteer their time."

"Yeah. About that," another spoke up. This one was unlike most of the others, not bearing any of the features that he had come to associate with beasts. "How do we know that you aren't going to convert us into bandits without us knowing? We can easily pick up a shovel and begin swinging it around like morons, and that would qualify as training."

A good question, he supposed.

"What I am preparing you with are not exercises alone. This is-" He paused. How does he answer it, actually? How does he tell them that he was giving them a training regime that would make them some kind of pseudo-Hunters? Granted, they would not have to experience the actual Hunt like he did – and he thanked whatever luck he had left for that – but there would have to be an explanation. Such as, what institution was he from? The Hunter's Workshop was defunct, and thus far he had the luck of not encountering anything that could be traced back to Byrgenwerth, Yahar'gul, the Choir, and the Healing Church.

In retrospect, he should have just taken a few apprentices instead of having to deal with a large crowd and then have them train the folks for him. That would have been much easier to deal with.

"How about you stop skirting around the details, Hero? You are trying too hard to hide something from us."

Frost stopped in his thought to look at that same animal woman. Idly, he watched her ears flop about on top of her head from the way she kept tilting her head at him left and right as if he was a curiosity.

He urged her to continue. She complied, "Just because the Mayor trusts you and we trust him doesn't mean we should trust you as well, Hero." The women puffed her chest rather pridefully. "You'll find that us village women are hardier and not as easily fooled like the wenches behind the Kingdom's great walls."

He nodded. It seemed like even though he had slain the Grimm and saved the village for them, they did not let that awe dictate their opinions of him. Good. Trust should not be won that easily.

"Very well." He felt his respect for the women double, even if they did not care for it. "Then I shall not hold back on what must be said." He paced the field, speaking his mind to them, "I will make this very clear now; the world is big. Therefore, each of you are nothing more than a blip that will disappear at any time. Whether it is because of infighting or because of invasion, it matters not. What matters is what you will do before you disappear, and the legacy you will leave behind."

He gazed hard at all of them. He could see a flinch or two, but he did not care right now. "That is where I come in. What I am going to give now is a decision; a decision not dissimilar to what I was given a long time ago. You can join the Hunt, and learn what I have learned. You will learn how to fight. You will gain the power to protect your dearest. You will become stronger."

But to become a Hunter is a lifelong decision. He needed to make sure they know this.

"All are equal under the banner of the Hunt. Regardless of age," his eyes traveled from the girls as young as their early teen's to women of marriage age, "...regardless of race," they roamed through the heads that had animal features and the ones that did not, "...and regardless of gender."

"Beasts do not discriminate. You will be sure to remember that."

"But the Hunt will be merciless. You will make decisions that will affect your very life, alongside any that you hold connections to, whether they be close or not. What I present to you is neither a blessing nor a curse. It is nothing more than a thankless burden to bear."

There was a hidden message, and the ones who managed to find it relayed it to those who didn't. He watched their eyes dilate at the statement he did not directly say, but wanted to be clear:

 _You will discard your future for the sake of others._

He expected outcries, outrage at the damning fate he presented to them. He was not disappointed.

"What kind of fate is that?!"

"Some hero you turn out to be!"

"Don't screw with us! That _is_ a curse!"

He bore through the curses and insults flung his way, mostly from the more vocal ones; there were others who had already resigned themselves, but they were few in number. He never cared for kindness in the first place. To be given kindness at all was a passing blessing that he appreciated from time to time, but jeers and insults were the norms. This was no different.

At the sideline, Mayor Port gazed at him studiously, as if he understood what Frost was trying to do. The townspeople were of mixed opinion, but they leaned towards what the volunteers were expressing.

He spoke over the disagreement undeterred, "...Which is why I present the second decision: you may leave and continue doing what you have been doing."

A choice he saw the women happily choosing. Which was why he spoke harshly when their backs turned to him.

"But understand that even if you do not know now, whatever choice you make will bear consequences. Your soldiers will not protect you. Your precious men will not protect you. Your mayor cannot protect you forever. As you are, all of you are nothing more than pretty targets to be ravaged and plundered by beasts and bandits until nothing is left, even for the vultures."

Frost saw the ones leaving turn around to glare balefully at him. He smiled coldly at them.

What he gave them was the truth. Even in times of conflict, people will ignore the truth and replace it with their own reality, however contrived it may be. They may think that they are in check with reality, but the fact of the matter is, the truth was too much for them to handle, and thus they deceive themselves to believing that nothing would ever go wrong for them; the Grimm would not invade, the war would be over soon, peace would come back, the men will return home, all is good. If only such a course of action could go so well, then he would never have had to visit Yharnam to begin with.

But even with that callous remark, some still did not want to open their eyes and ears, remaining adamantly inside their echo chamber. So he pushed.

"And by choosing to leave, you make the decision to subject your loved ones to the horror waiting outside the walls."

Their eyes widened, fear becoming palpable. It was as if that particular course of events never happened to cross their mind.

"I never imagined that I would meet women who are so weak that they allow their family and friends to suffer in place of them." He faked a perfect sneer. "Some hardy women you lot turn out to be."

It shattered. His eyes that had long opened could see the realization dawning on them. They must have expected him to continue his brutal dialogue. It was why they were surprised by the soft voice that spoke the next words,

"You can close your eyes and plug your ears to the world. But it changes nothing about the reality you live in."

He drew the Blade by his side and with a hand holding it by the pommel, planted it firmly into the ground, its edge sliding effortlessly into the gravel underneath. He adopted a grim expression once more.

"For those who still do not wish to subject yourself to such a burden, you are free to leave if that is what you wish. I hold no ill will towards you. But for those have made peace with your past and choose to pursue what is to come–" An approaching cart arrived behind Frost, containing the weapons he requested; a range of weaponry from simple blades and axes to rudimentary farm tools like pitchforks and scythes.

He motioned an arm towards them.

"Take a weapon best fit in your hands, and we will begin."

A low chuckle echoed from the cart behind Frost. He initially deigned to ignore it, but a familiar scent made itself known to him.

"You have a way of stirring the heart, Good Hunter."

Now that got his attention. He turned curiously towards the newcomer and widened his eyes. It had to be a dream. The man approached him, eyes never leaving him. From the gait in his walk to the sharpness in the man's eyes, despite lacking the wizened appearance and sporting an entirely different set of clothes, there was no doubt that Frost knew who this man was.

This had to mean good news. It meant that he was not alone in this world. It brought him a sense of alleviation he had not felt in a long while.

A Hunter stood before him. More specifically, the one who gave him the taste of a real Hunter. The beast he killed with the man's own Hunter's Axe, when the transformed man broke his Saw Cleaver. The husband of Viola and the father of two daughters.

A Hunter from the Healing Church.

"Gascoigne."

* * *

 _There was a story circulating about within the many towns and villages of Vale. It first started with rumors from the town of Fort, and as more and more rumors began to appear, they coalesced and became a tale. And every time the tale was regaled amongst the bards and minstrels, the stories become more absurd._

 _The last survivor of a Valean battalion._

 _A Mantelean deserter whose eyes were 'opened by justice'._

 _A vengeful wraith brought forth by the dying cries of those abandoned to the Grimm._

 _The embodiment of mankind's negativity towards the beasts of calamity in human form._

 _A human-Grimm hybrid being, rejected by both kinds._

 _An alien existence called to bring forth the harrowing end, of all things..._

 _The list went on._

 _But the general message that all of these stories share was a man in a bloodied uniform who slew Grimm indiscriminately. With nothing more than a timeworn scythe and an ancient, ornate firearm, he waged a solitary war against the Grimm._

 _He fought with overwhelming hatred against the Grimm, as if their existence was a personal violation he had to correct. He killed them with extreme anger, as if their presence was a crime against mankind he had to punish. He pushed himself beyond his limit to the point that he was seen as a Demon. Whether it was literal or figurative, it mattered little, for there were no other beings that could match such savagery other than a monster._

 _A tale spun and brought to life by awe and fear. He was known as the Beast Anathema, the Monster of Monsters, the Grimm Reaper._

 _But as time passed on, the ravaged lands healed and the stories became more benign, more modernized. The tales became abridged. The bloody origins became nursery rhymes and bedtime stories for impressionable children. The fables ascended and by effect, elevate him to a role not dissimilar to a god._

 _The new tales_ sung of _champions and heroes who fought and saved lives, who helped usher in an era of relative peace and lived happily ever after. The folklores told of monsters and demons that feared the angel of death descending upon them in their sleep. All of them could be traced back to this one individual. His accomplishments would become mythical, second to none except perhaps the exploits of the 'Last King of Vale'._

 _And he would finally be known throughout every history textbook as…_

 _The First Huntsman._

* * *

 **-DarkAkatsuk1**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Bloodborne nor do I own RWBY.

* * *

Sanguinary Recollection

* * *

"You could have done better."

It was now nighttime. The moon shined upon the town, its undamaged surface hiding its shattered state from the world to reveal what it had once been. Frost had been admiring it, basking in its pure, luminescent light on the balcony of the mayor's manor. A reminder of what once was, and will be from this day on if he had to make any say about it.

The Hunter glanced at the mayor curiously.

"I don't follow."

"I mean that you could have delivered your statement better," the mayor waved his hand. Still, he did not sound the least bit angered. "Your speech, it drew a lot of negativity back then. I was almost certain that a stray Grimm would attack at any moment."

"And they didn't," he said in a conclusive voice, returning his gaze back at the moon. These Grimm beasts were attracted by negativity? "The results were more than what I expected... far, far more. I can only hope that what I have done today will not spiral out of control."

"Spiral?" The mayor made a sound of disbelief from what Frost had stated. "You have created a volunteer group that will stand a chance when this town faces adversity from outside. If anything, you have done us a great favor."

Indeed, it had been a productive day. None of the women were lacking in enthusiasm and motivation, and he only needed to make a few demonstrations when he noticed a flaw they needed to work on. He had no idea how it may work if only taught through simulation, but it was the only safe method he knew. Throwing them straight at the Grimm at the very start did not exactly sound appealing, even if he wanted to do that. He'll do that eventually, once he has seen significant progress. After all, there was no Dream to be used as a safety net and all of them only had one life.

Luckily, many of the women once worked in the fields, so the foundation they had built up until today merely needed to readjust to wielding their respective weapons. It should take at least two weeks to see any difference.

"Did I though?" Frost mused. When Port gestured him to continue, he humored the man, "I have created an group that may potentially grow into an international organization. Once the other kingdoms become aware of the group's existence, they will attempt to recreate what I have made."

"Then it should be a good thing, shouldn't it?"

Frost smirked. " _If only that could happen…_ No, Mayor. Organizations are all bound to one fate. No matter how benign the reason behind the creation of a group, it will eventually fall to corruption. Men vying for power will climb upon their fellow men to gain even an inch of it. It is how kingdoms rise, and it is how kingdoms fall. I have no doubt that what I have done today will bear great consequences, if not good results."

The Healing Church arrogantly believed that the Old Blood was a miracle and presented it across all of Yharnam as a miracle cure, only for the city to fall to the Beast Scourge alongside the Church.

The Choir fanatically believed that they could become as gods by sanctifying the Great Ones, communing with them to in their misguided attempt to bring mankind to its next stage of evolution, only to fall into madness and insanity after realizing the Eldritch Truth.

Even the Hunters and its confederacies were susceptible; there were Hunters who fell into beastly madness themselves, becoming blood-drunk and descending into beasthood after imbibing themselves with blood in succession. There was a reason why fellow Hunters were not safe even among company, and why the Hunter of Hunters was an important role.

"If you believe that what you have done today was such a horrible deed, then why did you do it?" The mayor questioned him.

"Because I want to believe that no matter what happens, it will be for the best."

He must have faith. Faith was simplicity at its best. When reason becomes too much to handle, faith was the usually the last bastion.

 _Am I doing this right, Young Hunter?_

Port shook his head. "You are young, Frost. It is within reason to make mistakes that come back to haunt us, but at the moment, I believe that you have done for us a favor that may possibly never be repaid. For that, I am grateful."

Frost did not know how to answer without revealing his origins, so he nodded instead.

They then began to talk about other subjects, to liven up the mood. Port… he had a lot to talk about. He was prideful, but that pride did not border on hubris. He spoke about the strength of his town, the will of the people whom he had sworn to protect, the town itself that had grown from since it had only consisted of a few buildings. Most of all, he spoke of his connection with the King of Vale, who had ordained the role of Mayor to him personally. Then…

"How do you know Gascoigne?"

Frost's eyes dulled as the memory came into his mind…

"… _Beasts all over the shop… You'll be one of them, sooner or later…"_

 _The man charged at him with blind abandonment. The Hunter raised his Blunderbuss too late, and was forced to dodge a swing that could have severed his left arm. It was as if the insane hunter had telegraphed this, since he immediately shot his pistol towards his direction. He bit into his tongue when he felt the scattered shot of the crazed man's firearm graze his right shoulder. It hurt, but it was at best an inconvenience._

 _The Hunter lurched backwards, intending to use his momentum to swing the Saw Cleaver at the man who had already approached him. The man did the same and the two Hunters' weapon met. Calm consideration met insane aggression. Serrated edge clashed against blunt steel at every exchange. White hot sparks rained across the battlegrounds, and had the ground been drenched with oil, the graveyard would have surely been on fire. Not a single movement was wasted. Every single breath in and out was deliberate, and every offensive and defensive action served a purpose._

 _Even the tiniest of wounds matter to both Hunters, and it showed in the swiftness of their movements. In the moments the ironworks did not clash, they targeted air instead, in areas where an important organ once was._

 _Dodging is the bread and blood of every Hunter. Their vestments were designed to be light and durable, but that was it. It could not stand against the force behind a beast's claw, but it would at least stave away any stray attacks. In fact, its primary function was to provide the cover of the night to stalk prey unannounced. It goes without saying that it was not built to defend against a Hunter's weapon._

 _So he had to be decisive. He had to end this before he committed a blunder and lose his head._

 _ **So Why Are You Letting Him Slaughter You?**_

 _An inhuman whisper echoed somewhere in his mind. Passivity was no longer an option nor a valid strategy. A swift, aggressive and unrelenting assault produced more results._

 _He saw the man raise his axe up to make an overhead swing, and reacted accordingly. He skipped back and watched the axe descend down, barely touching his nose, and strike the ground. At that very moment, he stomped onto the axe to make it sink further, preventing the man from retreating. Then extending his Saw Cleaver, he placed all of his strength into one vicious swing across the man's chest._

 _Blood spurted out of his chest like a fountain, coating the Hunter with its pungent scent. He staggered back slowly, but he did not fall. The Hunter prepared himself again, but then…_

"… _Hah… What's that smell?" The blind, deranged hunter sniffed the air. "The sweet blood, oh it sings to me."_

 _Immediately, he lurched forth and looked in the direction of the Good Hunter, despite his blindness._

" _It's enough to make a man sick."_

 _A sick laughter echoed across the graveyard, as if it was the last vestige of the man's sanity. The Blunderbuss in his hand was placed into its holster, and the handle of his Hunter's Axe was extended, making it resemble a bardiche._

 _Then the insane Hunter used his body as an anchor to rapidly swing the transformed Axe in one fell movement. The strike could be called an absolutely extraordinary feat, for even in the throes of madness, this Hunter still possessed such skill that he almost did not appear as a madman._

 _Frost could not have anticipated the sudden attack…_

 _His severed head fell._ _ **HE DIED.**_

"An old acquaintance," he finally settled on, tracing his neck where he was once beheaded. Port watched the motion and came to his own conclusions.

"And from how you reacted, it was not on the best of terms." Frost nodded in confirmation. The mayor sighed forlornly. "Has Gascoigne always been like that with people he first meets? Aggressive introduction, keeps you a good distance from him, and if you even as much as scratch his daughter, he will bear a grudge towards you? I can still feel the bruise on my arm from the time when his daughter tripped and he lashed out at the man responsible."

Frost smiled dryly but genuinely. It appeared Gascoigne had acclimated to this world seamlessly, even if it was rough around the edge. "Unfortunately, I never had the chance to actually get to know the man himself. We were… for a lack of better terms, on opposite sides at the time, so I am hoping for the both of us to make up."

"A wise choice," Port nodded sagely. "To extend a former adversary an olive branch and prosper into an unbreakable bond… such romance should not be dodged!"

"Please don't say it like that," Frost sighed, even if what the portly man said was technically true.

"Ohoho! Nonsense, young man! Why, there was a time–"

And so, the mayor descended into another fable of the times when he was young. It was something to do with how he met his wife, by participating in a bare-fisted match against another suitor to gain her hand in marriage or something similar, and becoming friends with said man when he beat him into the ground. Frost realized what it was: a way to divert attention towards positivity.

These Grimm… were they attracted to negative emotions like loss, despair, suffering, and forlornness? That sounded even worse than beasts being attracted to the smell of blood. Blood could be cleaned and stifled before its scent reached anything. Emotions? He was not so sure about that. His Hunt had been nothing but negativity throughout.

It was only when Frost declared he had something to do that he managed to escape. The content had started to get a little too suggestive for his taste.

* * *

The tavern became silent when Frost walked into its modest holdings. His eyes traveled from the corners of the building all the way to the next corners, and finally landed on the counter where the display of spirits and liquors was present for all to see. Slowly, he walked to the counter and sat next to a familiar figure. The place soon returned to its boisterous atmosphere once he drunk his first tankard in one gulp, as if the people were welcoming him for the first time.

He turned to the one next to him and felt his mind halt. Lupine ears were present on top of the former Hunter's head, complementing the ashen hair with gray wolf ears. Gascoigne noticed his gaze and traced the ears with tentativeness.

"I had hoped that my mind was not playing tricks with me," he began. Frost tensed at the resigned tone behind the man's words. "It appears this is not a trick at all. But that is not important at the moment. The Hunt… is it…?"

He relaxed slowly and called for a second drink before turning to the man. "I asked myself the same question when I first came here. It appears fate has granted us a second chance, however twisted it is."

"So it is true. You are a Hunter of Yharnam."

He nodded silently.

"And so are you, Father Gascoigne. But I ask you, are you still–" Gascoigne, however, knew what the next words would be without hearing them. It seemed the man's sharpness had not dulled.

"No more. These ears are something else entirely," the man shook his head. There was no lie. The man was freed from the Plague. Frost felt something very close to relief wash over him. It was not enough to wash away the curiosity that laid on the man's head though.

It still felt like a sensitive topic, so he approached it carefully.

"What is with the ears then?"

Nicely put, he snidely remarked to himself in his mind.

Gascoigne began to rub said ears again. "I don't know. It does not feel like a symptom of the Beast Plague, and the people here are insistent that I am, what they call, a Faunus."

Wonderful. More unfamiliar terms. At least this one had a familiar etymology; more specifically, it seems to be connected with 'fauna'. Animals, then? The animal parts on those women during training came to mind. In the time he spent training them this morning, he noted how some ears would twitch involuntarily, how tails wagged in agitation, and how some used their respective features to their own advantage.

"…And the difference between a Faunus and human is?"

Left unasked was the difference between Faunus and beasts.

"Entirely physical. The Faunus are capable of complex thoughts, and can see, smell, taste, feel, and hear like any human, with some more amplified than others. Case in point, me and most of the women you are training."

Suddenly, he felt very thankful towards himself for not killing them when he saw them.

"But they… " _we_ " are still ostracized," Gascoigne began to drink from his tankard. The surrounding volume served as a soundproof barrier for the two Hunters to converse without trouble. Not as if anyone would understand what they were talking about. "I am unsure of the history, but such a simple difference between Humanity and Fauna like an extra set of animal parts was enough reason for there to be a rift between the two. Whether it is because of man's residual memories of the Beast Plague or because of plain xenophobia, I do not know."

Frost's second tankard finally came. He stared down at the foam that topped his container in thought.

"So now that I answered your questions, would you be kind to respond to mine's?" Gascoigne looked at him meaningfully. "This whole thing… it is confusing to me. I know I died, and yet I am alive. But for what? To suffer my losses again?"

He did not know the answer, so he did not respond. After all, he had hoped that the Healing Church Hunter would know the answer himself. His eyes remained staunchly on his beer, which was all the man needed as an answer.

"…How did I finally _rest_?"

This one, he knew. Frost shook the content in his tankard and recalled.

* * *

 _This time, it nearly took his head off. His hat flew away from the force behind the extended swing instead. The Hunter's white hair fluttered from the displaced air. The Hunter had barely ducked under a swing from the Hunter's Axe and rolled away to safety._

 _He really messed up this time. He neglected to care for his weapon and in the earlier bout, the hinge that connected the serrated slab of metal to the handle got loose. It would last him one more strike before he only has his firearm to contend with. The next attack must be decisive._

 _Duck under a horizontal swing. Pivot around a vicious thrust. Backpedal and disengage from the savage whirlwind attack. He avoided the bardiche's fatal swings with swift alacrity. His eyes roamed Gascoigne's entire frame, searching for the opportunity to spill blood. His patience was rewarded in the form of an overhead swing._

 _Frost maneuvered the extended Saw Cleaver around the approaching Axe's strike and transformed the serrated weapon back into its folded form, trapping the offending weapon between his own's space. Taking advantage of the deranged hunter's surprise, he pulled before the man could respond. But the force behind the pull unhinged his unstable weapon._

 _His Saw Cleaver fell apart. But he achieved what he wanted. Frost raised his remaining weapon, his Blunderbuss, and fired pointblank into the disarmed man's face._

 _The corpse stumbled back, a portion of the hunter's head blown off by a point-blank shot. Bloodied bone shards splattered across the ground as a mark of what had happened. But still, the body did not fall down. A leg shot back, the body bent down, and a guttural growl rumbled. Frost paused, clearly rattled and disturbed by the repulsive display. Then–_

"ー▂▂▂▃▃▃▅▅▅▃▃▃▂▂▂ー! _"_

 _The air displaced, and he was pushed back by some force. He looked up, and no longer was there a man in front of him. An unsightly being reminiscent of that Cleric Beast at the gate replaced what was once a man. Disgust welled up into the Good Hunter's throat, threatening him into vomiting at the sight. He smothered that urge quickly and forced himself away from the thing in front of him._

… _No, this_ _ **beast**_ _._

 _Backpedaling away from the bestial swipes that suddenly flew his way, he reloaded his Blunderbuss and swerved through the gravestones. They were as good as twigs against a bludgeon, as the claws ripped through them and blew dust across the graveyard. Frost fired, but the discharge accomplished nothing but anger the monstrosity. It stopped swiping and charged. Too fast! He couldn't hope to dodge! He grasped for something, anything at his waist, and promptly threw at its approaching visage. The beast lit on fire and howled in agony. Its claw missed its target, only managing to slash through his scarf to reveal his bare face to the world._

 _It appears aggression alone was not enough. The beast's own was far more than his own, and that was not including the abandonment behind every swipe and kick that was unleashed._

 _Breathing hard to regain his footing, he attempted a quick inventory check… and found only a single Blood Vial left. He immediately inject the vial into his leg, hissing at his body rejuvenating itself painfully; dislocated joints realigned themselves, flesh knit itself together, and bones reset back like demented jigsaw pieces._

 _He decided he would never get used to the sensation, especially when he did not fully recover. The Good Hunter could still feel blood trickling down his head, pouring over his left eye. He could still feel the many scars the beast's claw left on his body. He could still feel his shattered ribs piercing his lungs, causing him to cough more blood out. He could still feel the impact of all the hits he took and the blunt pain they accumulated on his person._

 _He forced himself to stay up anyways. Pain shot through his entire body. Pain was good. Pain was an indication that he was still alive. There would be no respite until the beast was killed. His Saw Cleaver was destroyed. His Blunderbuss was shattered into pieces by that last attack. His store of Blood Vials was depleted completely, its intoxicating effects lingering in his mind._

… _But there was still one more weapon he can use. And it was right on the ground next to him._

 _He picked up the former Hunter's discarded Axe on the ground and crouched into a low stance. The beast finally cleared away the fire alit on its body and glared in his direction, its bandaged eyes glowing underneath._

 _"…Do you hear the tolling of the bell, beast?"_

 _It gave a mindless roar and charged at this worthy prey. The Good Hunter responded in kind, releasing a war cry of his own and running at his target. Leather boots thudded the dirt dully in tandem with the hind legs of the lupine-like abomination. The Hunter leapt towards his adversary, Axe raised back with two hands. The beast reared its claw back, placing all of its strength into one final strike._

"ー _UuuoooaaaAAARGH!"_

"▂▂▃-▃▃-■▅▃■▃▅▅▃▅▅▅ー! _"_

 _The claw cleaved through a good part of his torso._

 _The axe caved into the monster's chest and out its back._

 _The Hunter fell to the ground, the momentum of his charge causing him to roll to a chaotic stop. White hot pain pierced into his brain, screeching into his senses. Overwhelming madness was all that occupied his mind from the agony he felt. His blood was pooling out by the second, the dirt beneath drinking it greedily. Blood loss would be his cause of death._

 _He could feel the Dream pulling him away from death's grip and back into its domain. He refused its comforting arms. The beast must_ _ **die**_ _. Inhuman determination forced him back onto his feet, and he faced his quarry once more. The Axe was still lodged into the fiend, but its steps were unsteady. Groggy. Weak. Why it did not pounce at him in his moment of weakness did not matter to him at all._

"▂▂▃▃■▃▃▂▂"

 _It had its opportunity, and it lost it._

 _He had approached the beast and wrenched the Axe out violently. Then he struck at its leg, hacking it away from the body. Ignoring the howl of distress, he hacked away an approaching arm and struck at the other before it could attack. With no arms and one leg, the beast was at his mercy._

 _There was none to give._

 _The Hunter's Axe was raised like an executioner's, and it fell into the monstrosity's face. It crushed the bridge of its nose, demolished its teeth like glass, and smashed its skull into pieces. The axe was raised again. It fell again. Raised. Fell. Up. Down._

 _He heard the beast gurgle unintelligible last words. Its body disappeared into wisps, and finally he allowed himself to die. He would not know what it said until he reflected upon it after his ascension in the Dream._

"Forgive me."

* * *

 **XxX**

 **PREY SLAUGHTERED**

 **XxX**

* * *

He finished his drink calmly and called for another. Faintly, he noted that the drinks did not have an inebriating effect. Truly, blood was far more intoxicating than alcohol itself and with his constant imbibing of the pungent ichor, alcohol simply did not compare at all. Or perhaps it was just him. Perhaps the alcohol itself just wasn't potent enough. Blood…

He really wanted a blood cocktail to see the comparison, to the point that it concerned him greatly.

"I remembered you severing my head," Frost recalled with disturbing fondness. "And I returned it by crushing your skull with your own axe. You taught me how to confront beasts that day."

The former Healing Church Hunter did not appear the least bit offended how his own death was used as a lesson for the Good Hunter. If anything, he looked relieved.

"So that is why… it would be an honor to fight with you rather than against you, Hunter Gascoigne."

The tavern's boisterous atmosphere continued its rhythm, but to the two Hunters, there was only silence. A tranquil moment where they, and only they, were able to communicate without words, where merely the subtle movements of the body were needed to speak: the swaying of eyes, the twitches of the limbs, the rate of breathing… each of them spoke many words for the experienced.

And it was through these tiny actions that Frost ascertained Gascoigne's intent.

"Ah. I see." He did not push further. He knew the answer without the former Hunter saying anything. Closing his eyes in acceptance, he said calmly, "You have found your worth in this waking world."

Gascoigne nodded slowly.

"That is fine as well. Madness need only be experienced once," Frost gave his own piece of wisdom. "I hold no grudge against you, Gascoigne. You, among others, deserve a better end than what that wretched Hunt gave you."

"I thank you for respecting my wishes, Good Hunter," Gascoigne nodded graciously. "And I apologize for being unable to tell you anything of worth. I can only say that you have been far more charitable than the Healing Church had been to me."

Frost waved away the apology. "It is fine. Besides," he smiled as he finally finished his third tankard and received another refill. "You are at peace, are you not? That speaks more about this world than our own, despite the threat it also has."

He held out his tankard, which the other immediately clinked in cheers. Both finished their drink at the same time and called for their last for the night.

"So… I hear your family is here?"

Gascoigne brightened and began a tale about his daughters and wife. In his fervor, he seemingly did not realize that he revealed them to be the same wife and daughters he left behind in Yharnam. That was fine with Frost. The man's overwhelming doting for his family was so infectious that he couldn't help but feel happy for him.

It was the little things in life that helped people learn how to cherish.

It was the same little things that motivated them to fight for them.

It was those things that made life bearable.

* * *

 _There are still mysteries about who exactly the First Huntsman was. His deeds were nearly mythical, but his identity was never disclosed._

 _Some thought him to be a Messiah sent to Remnant by the gods beyond the shattered Moon and revered him, creating a simple Workshop that blossomed at the end of the Great War. This simple Workshop would one day grow to become one of the major religions that permeated the entirety of Remnant. Whether it would end in glory or in ruin, that was up to its followers to determine._

 _Others believed that the First Huntsman was not a man, but a concept. A group of nameless incarnations who took up the mantle of the "First Huntsman". An idea borne to uphold the ideals of what a Huntsman or Huntress should aspire to. Whatever fits the mold._

 _And then there were the claims that the First Huntsman himself had close ties with the rulers of the Four Kingdoms: the King of Vale, the Emperor of Mistral, the Castellan of Mantle, and the Warlord of Vacuo. But those were easily disregarded._

 _The reason why all of these beliefs were disputed was because the deeds he had done were simply too unbelievable, almost as if he was a self-inserted character placed discreetly into the books by the perfect prankster._

 _History would call him the progenitor of the Huntsmen, the model that the King of Vale followed faithfully and looked up to when he designed the first Huntsman Academies._

 _Worshippers flock to the Workshop and glorify him as a Savior who will lead them to salvation in death. The teachings of the First Huntsmen could be traced back to the town of Fort, and it was from there on forward that they based their scriptures around._

 _The Grimm fear him._ Fear _, which should be impossible for beings that possess no soul, and yet they do. There were no explanations, but perhaps it was because of this belief that the Huntsmen and Huntresses became the symbol of resistance against the Grimm tide._

 _Again, all of them simply unbelievable._

 _But perhaps his existence is better off being disputed. The truth, after all, is far stranger than fiction._

* * *

 **-DarkAkatsuk1**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Bloodborne nor do I own RWBY.

* * *

The Lessons Learned

* * *

Frost scanned the squadron of Hunters-in-training going through their assigned forms. It had been a good month since the beginning of his imposed regime. One week in, they had still been adjusting to their respective weapons, but the quality had improved. Mayor Port had managed to secure more weaponry once Frost pointed out to him that there was a severe lack of supply in terms of tools used to defend. Kitchen cutlery and farm tools were good for their intended roles, but long term use in a fight will wear them out in only a good day or three.

There had even been a woman who tied a fork to a pole and presented it as her weapon. He had nearly laughed at the pitiful sight; he mostly managed to abstain because of how she used the fork with deadly effect. On a sidenote, said woman was one out of a couple others he needed to keep an eye on.

Thankfully, the kitchen knives were soon replaced with short swords and sabers. Shovels and pitchforks were discarded for halberds and javelins. Anyone who did not favor melee took up bows and crossbows. There were scythes… but the number remained relatively the same. He had not shown the Burial Blade's transformed state to anyone yet, but the farm tool had managed to find a place in the village's armory, despite the near lack of users.

Then it was on to the Hunters-in-training's form.

For the most part, they were passable. Once upon a time, they fumbled and dropped their weapons in nervousness and inexperience. Now, they held their tools with confidence and poise, and swung them with purpose behind them. With the level of progress they had made, the only thing the women lacked was the experience of the Hunt.

"Square your shoulders when you strike!" He noticed how stiff some of their swings were and called out to them. Soon, each of their swings appeared stronger than before.

His relationship with his trainees was rocky at the beginning. He anticipated the lack of reception his method of training would garner and prepared for it when it made itself known to him. After all, constant repetition was – he will be honest – boorish and wearisome. He did not need to repeat himself, but it was the only safe method at the moment. Repetition built muscle memory, and muscle memory ensured that the body will react properly when the mind froze in the face of adversity.

They did not know that, and it was on the second week that some tried to challenge him. The results need not be said, since they resumed training afterward.

"Use your hips to generate more force!" He realized that the brunt behind their strikes were still too feeble and lectured them accordingly. To his confusion, however, all of them stopped and turned to stare at him owlishly.

"Um. What are you trying to say, Boss?" One of them spoke up as a representative. She was the one who had brought that fork on a pole, he remembered. To be fair however, red hair and emerald eyes were difficult traits to forget. Frost turned to the speaker, who squirmed slightly when his eyes landed on her.

Boss. That was his title at the moment. "Hero" had been a rather uncomfortable nickname and he had made that thought clear to them. As such, he was now known as Boss, and occasionally when they needed to express displeasure to him, Frost.

But back to the lecture he gave out. He did not understand what they were confused about. He merely gave lessons that helped Hunters-in-trainings gain the lithe and agile bodies that they used to their advantage. All of his lectures thus far were lessons he had to learn the hard way – by jumping into the fire directly and being tempered by his failures and successes instead of listening and learning from the experienced.

"What do you mean… um?" He didn't know her name. Actually, he did not bother to ask anyone's name ever since he arrived in the village. In fact, he only recently learned that the mayor's name was Pieter, and that was only because Gascoigne mentioned it in passing. He remembered everyone's faces clearly, however, so wasn't that good enough?

"Nikos." The woman speaking looked distinctly uncomfortable, "What do you mean by, 'use our hips'?"

Ah. That was what they were confused about. That could be remedied.

"When it comes to joint flexibility, females have the advantage." He poked his own hips for emphasis. "More specifically, in their hip joint. The female pelvis is wider than the male's in order to accommodate for pregnancy, thus why the hips stick out. It is also because of this difference that women can enjoy a wider range of mobility and move easier to the side. By focusing on the hips when taking action, the force behind said action becomes more intense."

He nodded sagely. "I learned it from my teacher Eileen. She was a master at using her hips." Left unsaid was the Hunter of Hunter's masterful dodging and strafing. She was really a master at it, and it had showed in their hunt against Henryk. It had taken him a long time to realize how Eileen managed to weave through all assaults against her despite her advanced age, and that had only been after he ascended in the Dream.

Most of them began to blush. He felt concerned for them now.

"What's wrong? All of you are red."

Nikos spoke again, blushing as well, "Was it really necessary to tell us about your teacher?"

"Of course." Frost nodded again. "Eileen was one of the best Hunters I had the pleasure of learning from and Hunting side by side with… why do you ask?"

He felt really confused when the gathered women stared at him with befuddlement.

"Well," Nikos debated whether she should say anything or not. She chose the former. "You sounded like a pervert when you told us to use our hips."

"…"

Frost stared at her blankly, completely uncomprehending. Question marks flew everywhere in his mind. It took him a long while to understand why she said it like that and when he finally did, he could only flush and cover his face with his free hand.

"…The hips are central to the body's movement." He bravely ventured forward anyway. He could not turn back now. "Focus on that and the results will bear fruit."It was clear that it was not his intention to sound debauched. They understood that, but it did not stop the thoughts from invading their minds. The blushes remained, some longer than others.

' _Damn it, Gehrman_.' His predecessor's perverseness was rubbing off on him. He could even feel the Old Hunter smiling down at him, the smug old man.

"What about Aura?" Another asked. Rabbit ears blended in with the brown hair that permeated the top of this one's head and reached down her back. Her features were about as plain as every other women sans the rabbit ears.

Another unfamiliar term, and judging by the way everyone stirred as if they were reminded of something vitally important, this 'Aura' was a necessity. His only knowledge about this 'Aura' was its etymology: in this case, the speculated subtle emanation that determined a person's quality and character, as well as the state of their soul. Perhaps 'Aura' had something to do with the soul?

"What about it?" He proceeded lightly.

"Wouldn't that also help to improve ourselves? Will you be unlocking our Aura?"

He gave a seemingly thoughtful gaze. How to approach this... but then again, he could always go for half-truths. "There is an issue about that... that being, I do not know how to do so."

It appeared it was the wrong thing to say, since the crowd began to show signs of frustration that could escalate to panic. "But how? Every warrior across Remnant has their Aura unlocked and can unlock others' Aura. Shouldn't you be able to do so as well?"

"Every person is their own being," Frost spewed out automatically. "As such, unlocking Aura requires an intonation unique to that person. Unfortunately, I never realized my own."

A little twist of the truth could go a long way. Still, that should suffice. It looked like it as well, since the women frowned but accepted it without conflict. It appeared he would have to research on this 'Aura' afterward. He could make deductions from the little they gave him, though.

From the context of the rabbit girl's sentence, every warrior possessed this 'Aura', meaning that it was a power or force oriented towards battle. Perhaps it was a defense and or offense against supernatural enemies like those Grimm beasts? Or perhaps he could draw an archetype between Aura and the arcane? After all, it was easy to make a familiar connection with the limited knowledge he had than not. In that case, Aura was the primary opposition that every warrior on Remnant shared against their foes. It was their sword as much as it was their shield. Without Aura, they were helpless against the tide.

But he had managed to slay the beasts without Aura as his bulwark. He had managed to best the Hunt without ever relying on Aura as his weapon. He was as mortal as the Aura-less folks of Remnant.

"By the time you finish my training, you won't need Aura." He stated with firm conviction. "If you still wish to pursue unlocking your Aura, you are free to do so."

Again, they accepted his words without complaint, even if they did not like it, and returned to practicing their forms.

"Sire!" A scout, judging by the looks of his clothes and his young age, ran up to him and panted for breath. "It- earlier, there was a big group of people. They don't look like Valean ones. I saw them somewhere in the northeast."

Frost took the news in stride. If it was not a Valean squadron approaching, then it was either Mantelean, Mistralian, or Vacuoan. Thus far, Frost had deduced that Vacuo was allied with Vale, so the chances were higher that the approaching soldiers were the enemies. And enemy soldiers meant that there was a likely chance that the village would be plundered for supply. And if it wasn't any of the previous mentioned, that meant that there were merchants or bandits approaching the village. Chances were higher that it was the latter. Regardless of the circumstance, an unfamiliar group of people were approaching.

He took a deep breath in. The faint scent of ozone indicated an approaching storm.

"Good work, child. But I need a time frame. Give me a good guess on how long it would take for them to approach."

"I, I don't know. Seven minutes?"

Seven minutes… it was still daytime, so there was no doubt this group had seen the village. It's also possible, and more likely, that the unknown group will set up camp a good distance away instead of approach the village.

"…Good enough." He turned to the Hunters-in-training with a smile. "You did well, ladies! It's getting late, so you can pack it up and call it a day. I'm proud of you all. Remember the lessons taught in this past month."

Watching the Hunter-in-training leave one by one, he made sure that they were away before he left to begin his own task. His smiling façade morphed into a grim expression that would make even the most hardened of soldiers weary. Pale orbs the color of the sky glowed as tactics and strategies streamed through the workings of his mind with absolute ease. Some could even describe such an appearance _eldritch_.

After all… it was time for a hunt.

* * *

"… _good time. They won't see it coming_ …"

His assumptions had been correct.

It was the blackest of nights, when the clouds hung heavily in the sky as a storm brewed. This unknown group had camped at an ideal location away from the village – far enough that they would not be noticed in the night and close enough that they could approach the village with ease.

"… _more raid for sure. This will be the last_ …"

Frost caught snippets of conversations as he took refuge in with the dark. Over the month, he had requested that the stark white clothes he had been donned in upon his arrival to this world be dyed black, back to the original color scheme of the Hunter's Set. As such, he blended into the night seamlessly and remained as such as he stalked from the shadows once more.

"… _some of them enter as refugees from this war. They will poison the water supply. Then the next night, we will have a great pillage_ …"

Frost heard enough. He had hoped that he would not have to resort to extreme measures, but the proof was there for him to bear witness to, and he had no desire to delude himself.

This was a bandit tribe planning its next raid. And he would have none of that. The fresh memories of the fire that destroyed that village only a few nights past came to mind immediately. Fire could only be conjured by man, and the destruction of that village had been perpetrated by man.

He could not forget the odious aroma of ashes and rotten blood. The smell of burnt flesh as he gathered the corpses of the people who once lived in that village to burn in a pyre, lest they be defiled further, still lingered at the tip of his nose.

The stench of regret still hung above him like a loose chandelier threatening to fall.

Even when he fulfilled his duty as a Hunter, lives were still lost because he was too late.

He made his decision.

One of their members decided to move away from his group and judging by the gestures his hands made for his pants; it was the call of nature. The Hunter waited for him to approach a nearby bush to do his business, then approached the man with his back turned. The bandit would turn around to see eyes of death itself staring into his soul.

There was a thunderclap. He died before he could yell for help, his mouth in a frozen gape as his head fell down.

Frost immediately kicked the falling corpse behind the bush and walked briskly into the encampment. He heard call to arms as weapons were drawn in response to his presence. He heard the beginnings of heavy rain mingling in with the footsteps of bandits that had been formulating the senseless death of villagers remorselessly. He felt their bountiful greed, their unquenchable lust, their desire for baseless bloodshed as he approached.

They were no better than–

 **BEASTS.**

Frost heard words being shouted.

He felt the air whistle as blades were swung.

He saw the debased emotions prominent on their platters.

 _ **ROTTEN FIENDS DESERVING ONLY DEATH.**_

The words were guttural snarls of defiled animals. The weapons were tainted claws and fangs. The glee in their body language was unbridled bloodlust. Whatever sequence of events were actually happening, they were muffled to the Hunter, shut out from his senses that had been overwhelmed by rage and disgust.

And in the near distance, he saw a bloodied body on a cross, held up like a glorious trophy.

These "people" were not of mankind. They were _beasts_. And he slew beasts.

The Burial Blade and Evelyn immediately met against steel from every direction. Frost pushed them away in a single forceful motion and transformed his weapon into its scythe form. There was no need to rush towards his prey, since all of them came to him instead. He saw their surprise when blood was spilt from the first that approached him and ignored it. He saw the beginnings of their confusion when he displayed his unflinching willingness to strike to kill. Then their hesitation came when they saw their own kin fall.

The tails of his coat fluttered like pinions of a bloody angel as the rain leveled into a storm. The Burial Blade was swung in succession as it purchased into flesh after flesh. The blood on the Burial Blade was washed away by the rain that bombarded the earth, only to be repainted with even more blood. Their hesitation transformed into fear when they realized something that was not within their expectations. They had encountered someone who was beyond the realm of everything that had planned and accounted for.

Perhaps they never saw their deaths by the hand of one man.

Soon, one had managed to stab him with a poisoned knife. Frost gripped onto the offending arm and shoved a clawed hand into his guts as recompense. All of them paused in horror at the monstrous show of violence. It was as if they had witnessed something utterly alien and impossible, and it was only after he had finished disemboweling the poor fool who stabbed him – who dropped and splattered his innards out onto the dirt ground – that one of them finally voiced out their collective, terrified thought,

"Who… _What_ are you!?"

He walked towards them with a slow gait.

"What are you?! _How did you get through our_ _Aura_?!"

Frost did not dignify those words with a response. Beasts did not need dignity. They only needed to be slain. With immense abhorrence, if need be.

Evelyn was drawn towards the sniveling mess on the floor and fired. His head splattered, leaving nothing resembling a head to begin with.

The battle was no longer a battle.

It was a wholesale slaughter.

Steel that had spilt innocent blood met siderite and broke. Flesh that once indulged itself in pleasure felt the adrenaline of dread. The high that the raiders once debased themselves to achieve was replaced by absolute terror for the monster that could pierce through their defense without care. They fled in vain. He chased them down and cut them down like cattle. Some fell when he cleaved through their shoulders and out their waist. Others fell in the distance, Evelyn firing without pause and without fail. A butchery that exceeded beyond peerless coordination had occurred in that encampment that night.

It was unfortunate that few managed to escape, however. He would have to correct that later.

"I-It's too late for them a-anyways!" One of them, who he thought he had killed, screamed at him. Frost recalled slicing one of this one's leg off and leaving him to exsanguinate. He strode towards him and noticed that he had shot a flare into the sky, which was shining brightly up above. The scythe quickly turned back into its sword form. "The others have already been notified and are now raiding that village! So what if you kill us all?! You can't save t-!"

He shoved the Burial Blade into the brigand's mouth and out through the back. Choking gurgles came from him as it was swiftly wrenched out with contempt, pulling out some broken teeth along the way.

Frost proceeded to ignore the wordless whimpers of agony and walked towards the cross he had caught of glimpse of before beginning his violence. Judging from the dried blood, the victim had been wounded for too long and was left untreated, allowing infections to grow and fester.

"Filth-riddled lot," Frost hissed at the sight of the bloodied, crucified man. Disgust welled in him at the baseless cruelty, but he rid himself of it. There was no more need for it. Concurrent slashes displaced the air, severing the ropes that had held the man upon the cross. An escaped gasp as he collapsed onto the ground indicated that he was still alive.

He walked towards the downed man, but stopped when he heard a hateful growl.

"I… recognize you…"

Frost did not know the man, but he knew the uniform. The uniform of Mantle's soldiers all shared similar shades of white, and this man's was no different. It looked like the soldier had recently regained consciousness and was not yet aware of the bloodshed that had occurred.

"… _TRAITOR_ …"

He raised a bemused brow at the vitriol. The Hunter did not recall ever meeting this man… but perhaps he did. There were only a few conscripts on the barge from Mantle that spent the time to strike a conversation with him. Perhaps this man was one of them? The man clumsily grabbed for a bayonet that had been abandoned on the ground during his massacre and threw it with the intent to kill. Frost caught it easily and stared at the offending piece of metal that had been meant to stab him. With the last of its strength spent, he fell onto his back.

"…You left your fellow men… you dared to defect to the Valeans… you are _scum_ …"

He did not feel anything for the man nor his words. Still, he felt obligated to disabuse the man of this untruthful notion. He proceeded forth and knelt down to meet the man's eyes, bayonet still in hand.

"I am no resident of Mantle. I share no loyalty to it. I have never been a part of your beloved Kingdom," Frost stated.

The dying man bared his teeth and glared in defiance.

"Liar… you are a… a…" His words became weaker and the defiance in his eyes began to grow dim. Then an emotion of resignation sprung upon his face, "You… you are not a man… are you…?"

The man had witnessed Frost's pale eyes glow an astral blue in response to his impending death.

" _The bell tolls for thee, soldier of Mantle_."

"…Kill me… I will die as… a soldier…"

He reacted. His hand grasped onto the man's bayonet he caught earlier and positioned it onto his heart. In an instantaneous moment, it plunged with such force that the organ ceased to function. The eyes dulled immediately and the man's face sagged.

"Thou art a heathen, but death cleanses and renews thy soul. Rest now, and let thy spirit be drawn from this mortal vessel. Retreat to the beginning of life and so, cast thyself upon a new form."

He gave a prayer of hope and the hateful glint faded. In the end, there was no pain, no suffering.

Simply the closure of a life.

" _Umbasa_."

* * *

He did not bother to run back to aid the village. He knew he did not have to.

By the time he returned, another group of bandits were bound and directed towards the town square. Torches and oil lamps lit the town at night, allowing for its residents to be privy to the identity of the people who attempted to raid their beloved home. As such, there was much scorn and hate to be felt as Frost walked towards the gathering. He saw his students holding their weapons and deduced that they fought against the invaders with all of their efforts.

A faint emotion welled up in him. It was a pleasant feeling, like one watching their own work yield good results.

"Boss!" One of them called out to him. He turned towards her. Once again, he knew not her name, but he knew who she was. A frequent patron at the tavern he and Gascoigne would visit every now and then, and one of the few that had tried to challenge him in the early days.

"Report." She nodded in response to his order.

"These guys tried to raid us, Boss." She indicated the marauders tied securely in ropes. There was unbridled hate in her eyes. "Around sunset, they came in and asked for shelter… some of us were suspicious at first, so we heckled the boy that we caught reporting to you earlier today. We were prepared when we saw that flare in the distance… We were also lucky Sir Gascoigne was there to help out."

He shook his head. "Did any of you get hurt?"

"No casualties, Boss. Only a few minor cuts, but no major ones."

He breathed. "Check for poison in the ones that got hurt. Quick. Their encampment had a stock of tainted weaponry."

The woman scowled. " _Scums_ … the ladies will need to know about this."

He beckoned her on and turned towards the bound group of bandits. Most of them sneered at him, as if his presence would do nothing to them at all. It would have given him the conniption if not for the fact that he had killed their brethren only minutes prior.

"You think you'll get away with this?" One of them spoke up as threateningly as he could. He studied the person and found the particular individual rather wanting. "The Inganno Tribe will hear of this. Their sisters, Talavera and Branwen, will know of this. Our comrades will not let this stand! You will rue the day you made enemies out of us, outsider!"

Frost smiled. It was not _his_ smile. It was his inner blood-curdling _beasthood_ smiling for him, anticipating the coming days with great interest.

" _Good._ " He intoned chillingly. The shift in his mood sent a rattling chill through the bound prisoners' spine. This horrific and unwelcome instinct aside, this could actually prove to be a boon for him. With a group of bandit focusing on their attention on him instead, it will divert their goal of ransacking any other defenseless villages and aim their anger towards avenging their fallen brethrens instead. Less cutthroats attacking minor settlements would mean that he could rest easy about villages being attacked.

But with vengeance – impotent as it may be – devoted to him, if he remained…

The rain was beginning to subside, gradually reducing to sprinkles. The storm, or at least the worst of it, appeared to have passed.

"My boy, Hunter Frost!"

Mayor Pieter Port walked up to him with an axe in hand. It appears his month-old deduction of the man being a former lumberjack was also on point. His arms – composed of rippled, sweat-covered muscles that once held and swung the weight of a tool meant to fell trees – flexed and relaxed as the large axe was set down. "I do hope you had a wonderful night tonight! A night raid fully subdued by the brave villagers who took up arms without fear in the face of hopelessness. A story straight out of a fairy tale, but it happened! I never thought I would live to witness such an event."

Once again, positivity. Frost was reminded of it to remember the Grimm beasts lurking about.

"Unfortunately not," he shook his head. "My night had been filled with dealing with brigands that have a fair aptitude with poison. Speaking of poison, you may want to abstain from drawing from your water barrels. I do not recommend ingesting."

Pieter's jovial features immediately morphed into an emotionless mask. "I see. I assume you went out into their hideout to discover this information."

Frost nodded.

"And I also assume your sudden escapade is the reason why your students decided to keep the village alert about our 'newcomers'." He did not order them to do that. They decided such course of actions with their own judgment. He said as such to the man. Port laughed tiredly at his response. "I hope they are meeting your expectations after what has happened tonight. Now, what shall we do with our unwelcome guests?"

The Hunter let out another sigh.

"Do what you wish with them. I have done enough for the night."

"Enough?"

Frost looked pointedly at the tied-up group. "The rest of their groups are either indisposed, in hiding, or are now food for the crows. I care not for whichever."

The group in question blanched at his blunt report. Any signs of bravado quickly escaped them. The mayor's moustache rippled.

"…I see."

The Good Hunter studied the man's reaction. "…Do you disapprove?"

"I do not disapprove of actions that are taken for the safety of my town," Pieter stated. "…But I also do not wish for the sight of… whatever deed you have inflicted to be witnessed, considering your disposition and your tendency to take more 'extreme' decisions."

It appeared he was not the only person who had a sharp mind. The mayor had certainly learned much about what his actions would result in within this past month.

"The encampment will be burned down once the rain has died," Frost promised.

"Good. Good," the adrenaline in the man was finally wearing off.

Frost took the time to observe the town in this moment of respite. There was no doubt that there would be some destroyed properties due to the night raid, but commendably enough, the only objects that had been damaged were the walls of some buildings and some roads that were carved out by the slam of some hacking weapons.

In other words, his training was a success.

"I heard Gascoigne helped." The Hunter continued in lieu of the silence.

"He did," Pieter nodded. There was a modicum of respect. "I noticed that he fought in a manner that was similar to yours, but more unrestrained. A fellow axe wielder of mine." He stroked his glorious moustache. "Perhaps one day, when this body of mine is no longer rusty and frail, I would ask for a spar from him."

"Then perhaps, I do not need to worry anymore."

"Oh?" An eyebrow rose.

"I have spent too long here," Frost declared. "While I stayed here, there were villages that were in danger of being raided by scum such as these… people. All because of this silly war that encompasses the world at this moment, emboldening them to ransack without consequences."

It had been his hope to never have to involve himself in something that was not his business. But there was a part of him that howled at him to move. Screamed at him to find a solution. Roared its indignation at his previous decision to remain unconcerned at the events that transpired.

That if he were to remain idle would be the worst insult towards himself.

"…I must go."

* * *

He left without stirring much attention. He had gathered what little belongings he had, neatly returned what items had been loaned to him, and made sure that his tab at the bar was paid off. Why he left without telling anyone was simple. There was no need for any formality in regards to his departure. A Hunter must hunt, after all.

Frost had dressed back into the clothes he had arrived in this world with. On a sidenote, the absence of bloodstain was a novelty experience to him, he who had always been drenched in the crimson ichor for too long. The clothes that had been lent to him were hidden within the pack he carried over his shoulders to be worn in more peaceful moments. He had come to appreciate the comfort.

It was now the crack of dawn. The only person who knew of his leave was Mayor Pieter Port. He had no doubt that Gascoigne would not be surprised by his sudden leave. His students, however… he did not know what their reactions would be. However, he had told them once that he would leave one day when he believed they were ready to confront whatever adversities would come one day. Whatever they do now would be their own decisions. Their own paths. Whether they wish to abandon their training now, whether they continue to train until the war ended, or whether they continue this path and blossom into something close to a Hunter, none of it mattered to him.

He kept his promise. That was all that mattered.

Frost looked up and continued his tread. The beaten path that once stood in his way as a Hunter was now obscured only slightly by his aimless goal. Once upon a time, he was a nobody who gained his recognition through an incurable disease. Now, he was a Hunter lost in a foreign world.

He was an outsider. He knew that fact too well.

A single footstep in front of him that was not his own shook him from his thoughts. Frost raised his head to study the person before him.

A messenger bearing the royal arms of Vale. And someone who looked very familiar. After all, it wasn't everyday he saw a man on a ship capable of throwing up more than the human body should have.

"I come to you in deliverance of a message. Please, call me Ozpin."

* * *

 _Huntsman. The very title oozes glory and worthiness. Any person who claims to be a Huntsman or Huntress is not to be underestimated, for they are the ones who have accrued life-and-death experiences beyond what any civilian could ever experience. They are the sword of the people, the shield against the Grimm, and the defenders of the innocent._

 _And it is because of these inclinations that one must never confuse the Huntsmen for the Hunters._

 _The latter is an entire sovereign of its own. The distinction between Huntsman and Hunter must be emphasized, for they are entirely different from one another. Hunters are just that… Hunters. They hunt. They are not defenders. They are not swords that can be drawn by any person. They are slayers of beasts, killers of man, bloodied blades that have discarded their scabbards, both willingly and not, so as to never be sheathed._

 _In essence, to be a Hunter is to consign one's own mortality to an eternal Hunt. It is not known what this 'eternal Hunt' is supposed to mean, but the Hunters pursue this supposed ordeal with religious zealotry. Whatever an aspiring Hunter was, whether they be human or faunus, they are no more. For in the end, the 'Hunt' does not discriminate, but welcomes all._

 _Some welcome such a distinction between the two. Others see this contrast as a silly contrivance and try to band the two together as one. But despite their differences, Huntsmen and Hunters supposedly share a litany that will bind them:_

" _Where there is catastrophe, the Huntsmen shall face and become the Bulwark._

 _Where there is calamity, the Hunters shall bare their fangs and become the Bane."_

 _Quoted from an apocrypha titled, 'The Coming Cataclysm'._

 _But time passes fast, and oaths forgotten faster. The divide between the two remain steadfastly wide and not a single true attempt has been made to bridge them together._

… _Hmph. Such is the nature of mankind, to always find and emphasize differences._

* * *

 **-DarkAkatsuk1**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Bloodborne nor do I own RWBY.

* * *

One's Goals and Purposes

* * *

His first inclination was to ignore the messenger and walk past him. He had no obligations to Vale nor did he care for what its sovereign wished of him. And with a great war happening, a bandit problem to deal with, and his own personal goal to pursue… not his war, he reminded himself.

A second glance towards the man changed his mind.

There was a wizened glint within the man's hawk-like eyes, a glimmer so ancient it could not possibly be human. It was not deterred by the youthful complexion of his skin, but rather, it served to heighten the disparity between the two. It was the glimmer of one who had witnessed many events and committed countless mistakes that can never be rectified, one who had seen the flow of time bear the entirety of its weight upon his very soul. He knew this because once upon a time, Gehrman shared such a feature. He knew because he himself also possessed the same trait.

He would at least hear this person out.

"Judging by your silence, you have questions." The messenger, Ozpin, deduced neutrally, not betraying any information from his gestures.

' _What are you?'_ was the first question that came to mind.

"What does Vale wish from a simple Hunter?" He chose to ask instead.

"I had received reports from a mutual friend of ours regarding one Hunter Frost and the deeds he had done to secure Fort's prolonged life," Ozpin replied, leaning onto a cane Frost had not noticed was in his grasp. A straight cane with gears intricately inlaid within, the Hunter managed to identify in a quick inspection.

"You know Pieter," Frost stated.

"A retainer to the King of Vale, Pieter Port. And a longtime friend of mine." The messenger continued, undaunted by the interruption. He gazed at Frost, appraising him for some knowledge he knew not about. "You must be wondering how we managed to receive news of such interest."

He had been wondering that. How did the news spread? There were merchants that come by from time to time in the month he stayed in Fort, but none of them cared to learn how the town had managed to survive for so long. They had been more focused on making sure they made their transactions and left as quickly as possible. There were no emigrations, and there were no reports of missing people in the village. He made sure of those issues personally.

"Pieter sent messages to the kingdom through radio." Ozpin answered his unasked question.

Frost blinked. Radio? What was this 'radio'?

"Fort is by no means a secured settlement, but she is situated near the kingdom itself. Radio messaging is not an impossible feat from such a distance," the blond messenger adjusted the cane in his hand to a more comfortable position. "Our mutual friend has spoken much about you, Sir Hunter. Many great things, specifically. A militia composed of townspeople left behind by Vale's conscripts, all organized by a man who had saved said people from a Grimm incursion. An incursion, I must add, that numbered near the hundred that normally requires teams of warriors to tackle, and certainly not by a lone man."

The memory of the slaughter returned to him. He had merely seen the tide and charged into the fray without any regard or thought, only that the beasts must die. Frost could not say that it was an easy task, since he had to ensure that all of them focused on him instead. It was a stroke of luck that only one of the lupine Grimm, a Beowulf if he remembered correctly, managed to enter the town, and it had been put down by a well-placed shot from Evelyn, amputated limbs, and a foot to the head afterward.

Ozpin bowed, "You have my thanks, for saving Pieter."

"It is of no concern," he returned. "What is of concern, however, is what you are here for. More importantly, how you found me."

"He keeps in contact, did you know? Pieter Port was once one of Vale's finest warriors before he retired decades earlier."

He breathed. Pieter had not mentioned that at all. Or perhaps he never considered it a matter of importance.

"You are an outsider, Sir Hunter. Not of Vale, but neither of the others." Ozpin studied him further, and he him. It seemed as though he was struggling to find a proper answer with insufficient clues. "I have had the opportunity to meet many faces from various walks of life, but out of all of them, I cannot find any archetypes that I can connect with you. Sir Hunter, you are an anomaly. An unaccounted variable. Unless…"

There was a heavy emphasis in the titles Ozpin gave him, then a contemplative tone by the end.

"Certainly." Frost accepted them without trouble. "I am all of those things. Also, one that went through the trouble to solve problems that were your kingdom's responsibilities."

"You speak as if we do not care for our people," Ozpin replied, undaunted by the accusation. "…But that is not for a messenger to answer. That is reserved for the King."

Frost frowned at the implication. The messenger caught this small action and nodded in confirmation.

"Yes. The King. And the reason why we stand here talking." He adjusted himself to a more official stance. "His Majesty wishes to speak with you. Do you accept?"

The Hunter closed his eyes. Decisions made. Decisions given. Decisions everywhere. Blasted things seemed to love flinging themselves at him at every turn.

* * *

Just as Ozpin stated, Vale itself was only a few hours of walking away. By then, it was afternoon when the sun was at its highest.

The walls that greeted him were high and mighty, like watergates fortified to stand against tidal waves, and within them, a marvelous spectacle. Ozpin directed him through while he took in the view. A crowd of business full of conversations, a center of commerce and trade bustling with gossips, transactions, and exchanges. Vibrant like Fort, though it was not as subdued like the town itself. It was far more excitable, though that should have been obvious because of the much higher population.

He found himself enjoying Fort's frugality more than Vale's bustle, though.

Soon, the messenger stopped in front of an establishment. From its appearance, it was a coffeehouse. A quaint area that appeared to be inherited by generations, living by a motto that had not yet failed them. A blend of modern and classical structure, he presumed, given how the various elements about seemed to clash against one another.

"Shall we take a break? This humble establishment serves the finest drinks I have the pleasure of having access to." Frost stared incredulously to the man's suggestion. Ozpin smiled at his reaction. "Surely, there is time to wind down?"

"The King called you to summon me before him, and you decide to sit and drink? Not very messenger-like of you."

"His Majesty can wait a while longer. We do share many things in common," Ozpin replied placidly and offered him a chair. He had already placed an order while Frost spoke his thoughts. "Now humor me, if you would? I find it to be relaxing when the person I must guide around is someone I am familiar with."

Frost grunted and sat along with the messenger. He stared at the man, and the man back at him, as they waited for the drinks to come. There was an awkward silence between the two, if not because of the Hunter's suspicion about Ozpin, then because of his lack of conversation topics and desire to indulge in small talk.

After a long moment, he decided to break the silence.

"Who are you?" He asked bluntly.

"I am Ozpin. Surely, you remember?"

The Hunter stared at the man. " _Who._ Are. You?" He enunciated slowly. His tone could easily be mistaken for hostility.

Ozpin turned his head to greet the server and thank her graciously for the arriving drinks. "I'm sure that the answer will come to you in due time, Hunter Frost."

Not the answer he had been looking for, but given the warning gleam that appeared in the blond's eyes, he decided to desist for now. However, Frost's expression made it clear that he would not forget about it.

"Then as someone who the King requested an audience with, what will I have to be prepared for?"

Ozpin drank his coffee relaxingly, sighing before answering, "Not much, I believe. He mentioned being interested in an unknown person who is helping his subjects and wished to know whether that person was an infiltrator from the enemy nations or a friend."

"Is that so. Then I will state now that I have no desire to make enemies with your kingdom."

"I will be sure to tell him so," Ozpin spoke neutrally, his cup covering the lower half of his face while his eyes remained studiously fixed on Frost. "On an unrelated note, may I call you Frost?"

"Call me whatever you wish, messenger."

"Then please call me Ozpin. Also, drink your coffee and relax, please? It is more refreshing today than before."

On the contrary, Frost did not relax, his posture remaining stiff as he stared at the man across from him. His coffee remained ignored. Ozpin noticed and continued,

"I believe it is already a subject you tire of, but I must know, Frost. What do you know about this war?"

Again about the war. It had been brought up many times back in Fort. Pieter had talked about it occasionally whenever Frost made his reports about the batch of trainees, worrying whether they were in fighting shape yet. Gascoigne had mentioned it in passing, remaining largely neutral about the subject. Everyone else either did not wish to discuss it or were entirely negative about it, seeing it as an event that took away their husbands and sons.

"I care nothing for the war your kingdom fights," he began. "What I do care about are the results borne from the ongoing conflict. Grimm beasts ransacking defenseless villages. Bandits pillaging and raping what is left. Lives lost because of a reckless need that could be satisfied by other means. And most recently, the poisoning of supplies and sustenance that could be put to use simply for the sake of rampaging about delightfully. Each of these do not tell me that everything is in good hands, and I intend to rectify it."

"A good sentiment to uphold, but it does not answer my question. Do you know the meaning behind the war, and why it is being fought, Frost?" When he did not answer the question, Ozpin smiled mysteriously.

"Do you play chess?"

Frost blinked at the utter nonsequitur. "A sudden change of topics, Ozpin."

Ozpin laughed cheerily. "Of course! There's no need to always be serious. Conversations do not always have to be dreary and anxious. Chess can be discussed during both serious and small talk. Some may say that it even allows the players a glimpse into their opponents' mind and personality."

"Or… perhaps you just really like to play chess," Frost deadpanned. Chess was merely a matter of memorization of positions and stratagems. It can be played by anyone of all ages, given that they know the moveset of each piece on the board. Even newbies can enjoy this game of abstract strategy.

Again, the man laughed. "And I was found out so easily! I must admit, this is a first for me."

Frost tapped the table rhythmically. "I am familiar with the rules," he finally spoke. "Though, it has been a while since I've played chess."

"Then shall I call for the barista to bring out-"

"No need." Frost interrupted, discerning the man's intention of sort. "King's Pawn to E4."

The smile disappeared, replaced by an interested raise in his eyebrow. Around them, the ambiance seemed to dim. There were no board and no pieces to be placed. That could only mean…

"…Pawn to E5." Ozpin accepted the unsaid challenge after a moment to set the pieces in his mind.

"Pawn to F4. King's Gambit."

"Accepted. My Pawn takes your Pawn." Around the two, interest stirred at the beginning of the match between minds. Ozpin noticed this and grinned. "It appears our match has gained attention, Hunter Frost. Shall we take our venture elsewhere?"

"Does it really matter?"

The smile was replaced by sudden focus. "No. I suppose it doesn't."

The Hunter studied Ozpin's eyes. Even though the man's eyes continued to twinkle with delight, there was a cunning edge that finally made itself apparent. "…Bishop to C4."

"Hm. Queen to H4. Check."

Frost grunted. Aggression would be repaid with aggression, he supposed. "King to F1."

"Pawn to B5." Ozpin leaned back into a comfortable position. He retook his serious disposition from earlier and continued, "Back to our story. This entire disaster began a few years back when Mistral began to migrate towards the islands and peninsulas off the east coasts of Sanus. Coincidentally, Vale had also begun settling there as well. And understandably enough, this pushed the ongoing hostility between the two Kingdoms towards its peak."

Frost frowned. A good number of questions had already appeared in his head. Mainly, why was there hostility in the first place? What were the prior events that led to the migrations? And some more. They were questions he knew not the answers to, but was aware enough that even the most oblivious of natives knew. Thus, he could not ask without making himself out as an outsider of this world. He did not know the consequences of such an event, and he was not eager to find out what they were. And without anything to contribute,

"…Bishop takes Pawn at B5." He continued the game instead. Faintly, he was aware that someone at the side was placing chess pieces down and arranging them to match the game he and Ozpin were playing.

Thankfully, Ozpin answered some of his questions without him speaking up.

"To understand the circumstances of that led to the sparks of the war, we must first look at the events that started the crisis. Despite the citizens' wish to keep Mistral out of Sanus, the King extended a peace offering and shared the lands with the settlers. Knight to F6. I'm sure you can see what would happen."

"The two sides got along as well as oil and water. Knight to F3." Frost answered simply. He did not know, of course, but it was clear enough that he could deduce the answer.

"Even if they did not agree with the King's decision, they respected his wishes as well as they could." Ozpin closed his eyes with a frown. "They really did. Then one day, there was a riot. For what reason, I do not know, other than already high tensions between Vale and Mistral. Similarly, I do not know who attacked first. Whatever happened, it was the first battle that ignited this war we fight now. This Great War. Queen to H6."

"Pawn to D3." The Hunter clenched a fist. "I still do not know why Vale and Mistral have a significant… dislike for each other."

If Ozpin wanted to point out how much of an understatement Frost had put his words, he did not say it. "Then we must go back even further. Before the War, Mistral was a trade partner with another Kingdom. One Kingdom of Mantle in the north." Frost's eyes lit up in recognition at the name. "It was, and still is, a mutually beneficial relationship; Mistral would provide supplies and resources that do not grow in the tundra, and Mantle would provide insight on how to settle in snowy regions and high-end technologies. Suffice to say, both sides gained more than they lost with this alliance. Then when Mantle decreed the abolition of the arts and repression of self-expression, Mistral was not eager to lose its ally and followed suit… with some exceptions to the rule."

"There are Valean spies in Mantle. Or rather, you were spying on Mantle in person," Frost distinctly remembered the retching form of the blond messenger on the boat he had been on last month. It made some sense why he was meeting this person again. This kind of information should not be known by anyone in Vale, and yet it was being debriefed like common knowledge. "I suppose that was why you were on that boat that day."

"Ah," Ozpin flushed at the vivid memory. He raised his cup to hide his face. "I ask that you do not bring up that memory, please. I did not choose to be born like this. Ah right, our game. Knight to H5."

"Knight to H4," Frost snorted in amusement at the convenient distraction. "So, I assume Vale and its allies now know what Mistral and Mantle are doing to their citizens."

"Queen to G5. If there is anyone that does not know that in this past month, then it is only a matter of time until they are privy to it." Ozpin folded his hands, having finished his coffee. "And it is only one of many more on the list: unfair treatment towards their citizens, use of slave labor, and now this violating insistence that their way of life is what is best for everyone. I can say more, but…"

"Hnn," the Hunter sighed morosely, his earlier amusement dying a quick death. "So, now I know that this mutual hostility is entirely warranted on both sides. It does nothing to cheer me. Knight to F5."

"Pawn to C6. I doubt that hostility usually cheers people up, Frost," Ozpin pointed out.

Frost snorted. "I respond better to hostility. It lets me know that without a doubt, there's at least someone who wants to hurt me. Subtlety, on the other hand, is trickier. I have to decipher the intention before anything else. So between hostility and subtlety, I choose the former. Pawn to G4."

"You have a strange way of thinking. Knight to F6."

"I will take that as a compliment, Ozpin… Rook to G1."

"I digress. In the end, Vacuo was dragged into war out of necessity. Thankfully, we are allies out of the fact that if Vale is lost, there is nothing that will stop Mistral and Mantle from occupying it. A land of abundant resources, natural barriers, and the largest amount of Dust deposits ever known on Remnant… a salivating prospect to seize, and so nearby as well. I believe there is a saying about misery being shared amongst company that summarizes Vacuo's situation aptly. Ah, Pawn takes Bishop at B5."

"You are not wrong at all. Pawn to H4."

"Queen to G6." Ozpin raised his cup again. It was refilled while the two were busy. "With all of that, it has been… nine years since the war began. Nearing ten in weeks. Rations are running low. War profiteering continues its boom. Businesses are slowly closing by the minute as the market on war expands. Do not let the appearance of the bustling marketplace fool you. It is merely to keep the illusion that we are not dwindling in supply and to keep morale high and negativity low. I don't think I have to say why?"

 _ **Beasts.**_

Frost's eyes narrowed at the inner guttural snarl.

"Yes. You don't need to. Pawn to H5."

Negativity would attract the Grimm in swarms towards settlements. That was bad, obviously, but what about the battles that were fought? Those would naturally attract Grimm as well. Do both sides kill the Grimm, then continue to kill each other? If so, then what was the point of all that? What Frost concluded from the information he was receiving was that this war was fought over how life should be lived amongst mankind. Perhaps even over the very idea of self-worth and how one should define themselves.

In short, it was a war between conflicting ideologies and individualism was the cause.

Such pandemonium. Such turmoil. Such turbulent times. All of which that could have been avoided. And from everything gleamed thus far, there was still more, but they were not being spoken of.

Ozpin seemed to contemplate saying more, but decided to focus on the game entirely. "Queen to G5."

"Queen to F3," Frost played. He raised a brow. He almost seemed surprised that the Hunter had not moved his Queen until now. Either that, or he just realized that his Queen nearly got trapped just then.

"Knight to G8." He quickly got over his surprise, however.

"Bishop takes Pawn at F4. Threatens Queen."

"Queen to F6."

"Knight to C3." Frost tapped his finger, waiting for the pieces at the nearby table to finish being placed for the audience to see. There was an increase in pacing in their game, due to the sudden lull in their conversation. Or in Frost's case, information gathering.

"A random bit of advice, Ozpin. Focus too much on the most powerful, and you have everything to lose."

The blond chuckled at the unexpected banter. "I'll take that advice with utmost consideration. Incidentally, Bishop to C5."

"Knight to D5."

"Queen takes Pawn at B2."

"Bishop to D6."

"Queen takes Rook at A1. Check." The audience gasped in the background. On the other hand, Ozpin frowned at the sudden advantage he had over the game.

"King to E2," Frost smirked lightly at Ozpin's minor chagrin and bantered, "You're doing it again, Ozpin. Already throwing away my advice? How inconsiderate of you."

"Apologies, Frost. I'll remember it this time. Bishop takes Rook at G1."

"…Pawn to E5."

Ozpin raised a brow at the Pawn's movement. It was clear that he was expecting one of the other pieces, but not the Pawn. "Are you already surrendering, Frost?"

"Think about it, Ozpin," Frost replied evenly.

This time, there was a hint of frustration in Ozpin.

"…Knight to A6."

"Knight takes Pawn at G7. Check."

Ozpin could already see the outcome, but he continued, "King to D8."

"Queen to F6. Check."

"And my Knight at G8 takes your Queen," finally, Ozpin sighed in what seemed to be disappointment. "I thought you would put up a fight like you did at the beginning, Frost. Have you been playing me for a fool from the start?"

"Is that what you think, Ozpin?" Still, he remained calm. To Ozpin, it was nearly insulting. "When I told you to think about it, I really meant it."

Ozpin reviewed the progress of all of the laid out pieces in his mind once more. Thus far, he had lost only three pieces – all Pawns, he gathered – while Frost had lost six pieces: two Pawns, both Rooks, a Bishop, and the Queen. For all that it was worth, he did not see any way this would end beside his victory.

"This game has reached its end," he sighed at the conclusion.

"We both still have a King. The game has not ended yet," Frost stated monotonously.

Ozpin frowned at the calmness Frost continued to display. "You have only one Bishop. No Rooks to save your King. No Pawns close enough to go for the kill. And most importantly, no Queen to assert your claims. At this point, it is better to end the game to save our time than to continue."

Around them, some agreed with Ozpin's claim. Others waited in anticipation for what else Frost had to give. The two players continued to ignore the amassing crowd.

"Perhaps so, Ozpin. But is that really the choice you make when cornered?" Frost questioned meaningfully. The blond noted the sudden ardor in the Hunter's voice.

"Yes," he replied ruthlessly back. "It opens more revenues to exploit. Even in loss, there is still a greater victory to gain. There is no shame in admitting defeat."

"And in the chance that everything is placed at stake?" He rebutted with equal fervor. "I am not talking about the physical, but beyond that. In the scenario that your body, your mind, and your very soul are forfeited, would you still surrender? Would you still sell your entirety simply because the end is near?"

"There is no such thing, Frost." His question was rebuked with certainty from Ozpin. There was no hesitation. He knew that. But there was something off about the lack of hesitation. It felt too… practiced. He spoke his final piece,

"Second chances always exist."

Frost would have agreed with that statement had he been far, far younger. Far more idealistic. Far more open and prone to decisions that were not based on concrete evidence but on hope and belief. The eldritch experience he had endured and suffered through prevented him from accepting such notions easily.

Or perhaps that was his cold, warped side believing on his behalf.

"So do you forfeit and claim your victory another day?"

He made his decision. "…I am a Hunter, Ozpin. It is one of my duties to search for even the tiniest of openings. For even if that chance of a comeback is less than one percent, I will seize it."

"I'm sorry if I find that sentiment foolishly contrived."

Frost laughed. A genuine laugh on his part, which surprised himself. For what reason, it eluded him. Still, it was a welcome curiosity. He felt his burden lessen for a moment.

"Be it as it may, the game has not ended, Ozpin. So long as there are two Kings, the game continues."

Ozpin opened his mouth to speak, but Frost declared,

"Bishop to E7. Checkmate."

He froze at the declaration of the end, eyes wide.

Immediately, possibilities after possibilities filtered through the inner workings of Ozpin's mind, constantly forwarding and rewinding to what he deemed pivotal moments of the game. Every choice he made came through. Every decision he could have made passed by. Hundreds of different positions could be placed when each player make one move apiece. Tens of thousands more on their two moves apiece, and millions on their three, and the number continued to increase exponentially. He closed his eyes.

The audience was in an uproar in their applause, as if they were there to witness history being made. To them, it had been a wild carriage ride of emotions that had stirred their minds left and right without pause and warning as they did their best to keep up. All were in awe of the two men who dueled without a chessboard, merely using their mind to compete. Attention was showered upon the two, wishing to know their identities. Some recognized the blond messenger, while others barely knew the other.

All of this happened while Ozpin was ascertaining what led to his loss.

…Of course. It was the Pawn at E5. That was where everything began to fall. So focused he was on that particular Pawn that seemingly meant "surrendering" that he lost sight of the Bishop that was clearly positioned before him and saw the white Queen as the true threat. There was no need to mention the Knight stationed to kill if he moved his King. That was the moment he lost.

He had to repeat those two words again.

 _He lost._

"…Huh." When he opened his eyes, there was a hint of emotion that Frost did not have enough time to decipher. "I had thought that the moment I lost, I would feel a great many emotions. Perhaps an instant of a catharsis. I would have understood anger, even. Instead… I feel relief."

Frost finally picked up his cup. The coffee had grown cold by the time they finished, but it mattered little to him. He downed it in one sitting. As he had expected, the bitterness did not bother him any more or less than alcohol did. "Do not think too much into it. In the end, chess is a game. It is the lessons and thoughts we take from it that matters."

He studied Ozpin further. "But if there is anything I gained from this, it is that you are more than you make yourself out to be. Great mental acuity, a firm grasp on the fundamentals, a willingness to take risks to the point that it borders on falling into insanity…"

"Not suicide?"

"You believe death to be worse?"

Ozpin only answered with a smile.

"Come. The King awaits."

"Or… we can get down to business right now."

Ozpin paused. In the background, some others paused as well while the others left to return back to their businesses.

"Had I been too obvious?" He asked solemnly.

"Of course you were… _Your Highness_." He mouthed the last two words so as to not garner attention.

The now exposed King sat back down with a soft laugh. "If I may ask, what gave it away?"

"Your in-depth knowledge about the war, your sudden lackadaisical attitude whenever the "King" is mentioned, your tendency to speak half-truths instead of revealing everything," he stared around at the people who were not part of the leaving, excited rabble that was caused by the chess game's outcome, "your minor loss of control when I moved my Pawn, and the "civilians" around us that are either admiring you or planning an assassination. Hope for the former. All of them are characteristics that a leader is expected to possess, some more than others."

He tilted his head. It was almost childish in its maneuver.

"Need I say more?"

"No need." Ozpin brushed it off. He also held up a hand for the "civilians" to stand down. Frost heard the sheathing of hidden weapons in response. "They are my retainers, as you said. Forgive me for the deception, Frost. I had to be sure if you were trustworthy, and if you were affiliated with another party that I am contending against."

"So it is safe to say that I passed." Frost studied Ozpin again, reevaluating his impression of him while gazing towards the retainers who were now paying a great amount of attention to him.

"Not… entirely." Ozpin allowed, "But enough to know that you are at least not on her side."

There was a meaningful inflection on the "her", even if it was an indubious one. Frost pondered on that word.

"Pieter spoke great things about you. So great that it was nearly suspicious. He is not a man who gives praises easily, so to give it to anyone warrants attention." Ozpin finished his coffee. "And given the gravity of the situation that is sweeping all of Remnant, I had to be sure for myself. The only certainty here is that you are on your own side, affiliated with no one."

"Which means that I am still a matter to confront, leading to the reason why we are here," Frost finished for him.

Ozpin leaned forth. There was a pause when he opened his mouth, as if unsure what to say but he managed,

"I implore you, Hunter Frost. Lend me your power."

Frost raised a brow. The retainers did not appear enthusiastic about their liege's decision. One of them made their displeasure known.

"Your M- Mister Ozpin, you cannot be serious about this!" A woman rose and stormed towards the two. Frost's eyes narrowed at the berth that was created at her appearance, like everyone knew who she was and steered clear to not obstruct her path.

Blonde hair tied into a braided bun paired with porcelain-like skin that was marred by a single faint scar that could be mistaken for a birthmark. Small double crescent arcs were emblazoned upon the upper center of her pristine plate armor and the tabard underneath, perhaps as a personal mark or an emblem indicating a noble lineage. Two swords hung parallel to each other behind her left shoulder, indicating left-handedness. A closer inspection, however, revealed that her arms were more built towards wielding heavier weapons – perhaps the battle-ax – which made the swords closer to backup weapons than her main choice of arms. The air of austerity and resolve about her indicated that she was not a person to trifle with and get away from.

"You can be assured, Minet, that I am positively serious about this," Ozpin disabused her of any notion that she had misheard. "Frost, this is Minet Arc. She is the Dame Commander and Vale's Head of Homeland Security. She maintains order and peace among the populace and ensures that morale is maintained at an acceptable level. A rarity amongst knights, and one of my most trusted."

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Minet," Frost nodded politely.

"The pleasure's all yours," the woman, Minet, returned with a certain wariness. It must come with the job, he presumed. "Mister Ozpin, I implore you to reconsider. We still do not know who this outsider is. Even if he is not involved with her, the possibility of him being an enemy spy still stands. One month is not enough to prove one's innocence."

Again, that inflection on "her", he noticed. He also did not fail to notice that he had been spied and vetted upon for the past month either. With this "radio" that Ozpin mentioned earlier, he presumed.

"My decision stands, Minet," Ozpin stated conclusively. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. As of now, Mantle continues to besiege the coasts of Sanus, and while our men from Vale and Vacuo are doing their best to withstand the assault, we still do not know what Mistral and Mantle are planning next. Central intelligence in Mantle is far too clandestine and I was forced to return, and Mistral has closed its border entirely to the world sans its ally kingdom and prospective traders deemed safe. Our own men in Anima are either missing or indisposed, and I need a catalyst that can shed light on what is happening."

"And thus, you ask someone unaffiliated with Vale and Vacuo to gather intelligence for you. A rather simple plan." Frost's eyes traveled to the people who were studying him.

Ozpin nodded, "I will not ask you to fight for me, nor for Vale. But I will point out that it is in our best interests that the war comes to an end. The earlier the better. Grimm continue to invade while we continue fighting among each other. It is a situation where both sides lose everything and gain nothing. We both can stand to benefit from a cooperation."

Frost gazed studiously at the King's proposition. It was true that he would need to secure as much aid as he could manage…

"I will help you… under certain conditions."

Ozpin nodded. The bargaining began.

* * *

Frost had accepted Ozpin's request under the condition that the bandit problem in all of Vale was resolved on his behalf. That meant that he had one less problem to deal with, and another whole bigger one to tackle. Namely, the goal that he pursued when he first reached the continent of Sanus – why he was denied death in the very end and returned back to life. Hunting for the Talavera, Inganno, and Branwen tribes was a secondary objective.

When they had moved to a more private area, he had cautiously spoken of Yharnam to the King. Ozpin had replied with confusion and curiosity but in the end, he suggested that the Library of Rashomon in Anima was a decent start to getting an answer. How the King knew of the place did not concern him, but the distance that he would have to cover to reach it did. Ozpin helpfully supplied him with a horse to cover the distance to the pier, a pouch of coins and certain essentials, and a letter to hand to a certain person that would help him reach the neighboring continent. Thus, leading to Minet guiding him to Vale's stable to choose a horse.

He did not have high hopes of that happening for reasons. The horse part, he meant.

"Let it be known now that I do not trust you," Minet suddenly spoke up as they reached their destination.

He blinked at the broken silence, but he recovered quickly.

"Your caution is warranted, Lady Minet," Frost accepted her distrust. "I am someone who appeared out of nowhere. An element that has not revealed anything that belies honesty. A nobody, for all intents and purposes. Trust is the last thing that should be paid to me. Yet, your liege has given it to me despite the circumstances."

Minet nodded with a frown. "Why Ozpin would trust a killer like you is beyond me." Frost stared at the woman. "I know that posture, Sir Hunter. You have shed blood far too many times to ever be absolved from it. You are no soldier, nor are you some mere hunter like you claim. You are _something_. What that _something_ is, I do not like it whatsoever. And even if he accepts you, I will not tolerate such presence before His Majesty."

Frost was familiar with this attitude. He had almost forgotten about it due to the cordiality he was shown in Fort in the last month. It was enmity, which was in large supply in Yharnam during the Hunt. He decided to remain silent towards her dislike.

She began to open the stable doors. "Honestly, what is he thinking?" She muttered under her breath, thinking Frost could not hear her. His enhanced senses ensured that he could hear even whispers far away from him. "All of my hard work of keeping the peace, and what does he do? He leaves in the middle of the night without saying a word to me, sparking up madness in the kingdom and causing all of us to stress out. And when he comes home, he also brings home a dangerous stranger like he wanted to keep a stray dog as a pet. Does he even care about that I worry? Stupid…"

He should feel a little insulted by her ramble, but he wasn't. Instead, he studied the Dame Commander as she fumbled with the locks. There was a certain kind of fondness in her grumbling, however muted they may be by her irritation. Suddenly, it clicked why she was so averse towards him.

"You love him, don't you?" His observation slipped out without him noticing.

"Do not mistake my loyalty to His Majesty for anything else, Sir Hunter." Her tone was clipped, but there was a tiny lisp that did not escape his notice. His dead amusement revived itself.

"Of course." She turned to glare smolderingly at him, but said no further. Finally unlocking the stable, she pushed open the doors and walked in.

However, the moment he entered the stables as well, all of the horses began whinnying and neighing in recoil, smashing against their respective posts in a frenzy. Frost stepped back out and in response, they stopped their uproar before it devolved into a rampage.

"What just happened?" Minet was now glaring questioningly at him now, now by his side and alarmed by the erratic behavior. It seemed to be a trademark of hers; glaring, that was.

"Animals are naturally repulsed by me," Frost revealed. "It is a side effect of what I had done to warrant it."

The street dogs back in Fort fled from him with their tails tucked between their legs, unnoticed by the people. The wandering cats in Vale gazed anxiously at him and only ran when he paid any attention to anywhere close to them, stirring up a mess while they were at it. The rats in both were no better, instantly fleeing and making their presence to the citizens of Vale known, while letting them know that there was an infestation.

A shame, really. He enjoyed the sight of that one cat's fluffy tail. Its plume was absolutely majestic, and it was ruined by grime and mud in its escape.

"Really now. Do tell." His statement was met with caution and a side of disbelief.

He hummed in thought. He did not know how to explain without being looked at like a madman, even if he really did not mind. "There is a saying that details how animals have a differing sense of perception as opposed to mankind. Dogs fleeing the beginnings of a tidal wave, horses suddenly migrating away from epicenters of natural disaster, even fishes changing their swimming patterns to avoid incoming storms…" He trailed off at the end.

"So you're saying that not only are you a killer, you are a walking natural disaster?" Minet spoke skeptically, one brow raised.

Frost chose not to reply. The truth, after all, was far stranger than fiction.

"I'll leave that for you to wonder, Lady Minet. But in the meantime, I'm afraid I'll have to retract Ozpin's kindness. Do you know the fastest path to the pier to Mistral?"

In his retreat, he had not noticed a lone mare approach him. The Dame Commander did and motioned Frost to turn around. The Hunter was surprised to see an animal that did not shirk at his gaze. Its height suggested that it was nearing three years of age. Its coat was gray, a stark contrast to the browns and blacks he managed to see in the stables, and appeared to be in a healthy condition.

Tentatively, he held a hand up to stroke its face. It neighed with pleasure at the contact.

"You… wish to serve me?" Frost asked the pale horse uncertainly. The young horse snorted positively in response. He frowned. "You understand that you may be ostracized by your own kind, do you?"

"You're talking to a horse. Now I feel concerned about your sanity, Sir Hunter," Minet commented at the side. He ignored her and focused on the mare instead, studying the horse's physique and whether it could endure the tribulations to come. He nodded with satisfaction.

"What's her name?"

Minet blinked. "Normally, we do not name our horses. If it conveniences you, then by all means."

"Acha, then." He immediately picked a name. Simple and easy to remember. Frost saddled the horse, Acha, up and was on her by the time he had exited the east gates. Minet stopped him from leaving for a moment to give him one last object of importance.

"You'll find the pier at this location," Minet tossed a rolled up paper to Frost.

"I thank you, Lady Minet."

"Don't be. It was Ozpin's order and… good luck, outsider." She turned back to return to her duties.

Frost nodded at her back and studied the map. Faintly, he remembered Ozpin mentioning that depending on how long it took him to reach his destination, it would either be under Vale's or Mistral's control. Either case, he would have to be careful when he approached the area.

With his mind set in place and no reason to turn back, he checked Evelyn and the Burial Blade to make sure they were properly secured to him, and once satisfied, began a new journey once again.

* * *

Ozpin watched from the walls as Frost left towards the east, preparing himself for the tides to come.

He could have done better. He could have gained a lot more than just an unaffiliated friend when he bargained with the Hunter.

Yet, when he set forth on his plan to draw Frost to his side, there was an instinctive tug in his mind that stopped him from trying to get closer to the outsider at the last second, as if that very same instinct was protecting him from doing something he would regret.

He could not understand it. He had not known such an experience in the many centuries of his life.

Frost could have been a powerful ally, but he was not one who will allow himself to be controlled. Just as water can never be controlled – it will continue to flow. Just as lightning cannot be controlled by man, but by the heavens. Just as fate can never be controlled, but by the gods.

Ozpin understood all of that and more.

However, all of them share the same trait: they can all be redirected. They will eventually reach their end goal without a doubt, but all that mattered were the results born from the path they carved through. It was one of the harsh lessons he learned through his lives, and he will use whatever he can to reach his own goal. He was aware that involving an unknown element was contradictory to everything he had done previously. Meticulous planning had been thrown out of the window the moment he had switched from convincing Frost to his side to asking Frost for help instead.

Yet despite the risks in doing so, despite the tumult that would result in involving an outsider not in the know in his shadow war, there was a kindred part that vehemently asserted that he could trust him. He did not need to be aligned with or control the Hunter. He merely needed him to move on his own and sow his own path towards Ozpin's end goal.

And that alone was enough to unnerve him.

…There was a sentence he once gleaned from an old manuscript some centuries past. He did not recall the exact details, but he remembered that this particular line was part of an announcement. An omen that spoke of the end times. It detailed the coming of the end times, when all of existence would sink back into the ocean from whence it came and the planet's purveyors would arrive to bring back a new life upon the desolated land.

It had meant nothing but a fool's tale to him then.

Now, it described this unfathomable emotion he felt from the disappearing back of Frost.

"—I looked and beheld a Pale Horse. Upon its back, its rider was Death. With it, Hell followed."

He whispered the ominous line to himself.

Was Frost a similar being to him? A being cursed by the gods? Or perhaps something more?

He shook his head and made his way to Minet as she approached him, smiling at her cheerily and taking very careful attention _not_ to notice her slight blush. There was much to do now that one task had been accomplished.

The die had been cast and the chips have fallen. May whatever consequences that come his way do their worst. Ozpin was prepared for the confrontation, and for the discord that would end this war.

He had spoken about the Library of Rashomon to Frost. Indeed, it was a site where scholars and philosophers gather to share their knowledge and perspectives of various subjects, but it was also a site that carried texts of a more… forbidden nature. A reliable source told him that one would need a permit and the recommendations of many trusted insiders before they could gain entry, and trust was in short supply in Mistral. It also happened to be a place he suspected was under the influence of his sworn enemy.

However, he had little doubt that Frost would find a way in on his own. The very little time they spent together told him that the Hunter was nothing if not resourceful.

He will need it for when he finally meet _her_.

* * *

 _The chaos of the Great War left many destitute and impoverished. It was, is, and will be known as the conflict that drew out the best and worst of all beings. So much for war, which was meant to create opportunities for jobs, opportunities for technology, opportunities for a unified purpose. Only mankind could fail at such a development, since negativity remains high in certain areas of the world more than others and thus, remain uninhabitable to this day._

 _And as it goes, when there is nothing left to cling to when everything is lost, there will always be the opportunity to begin anew and renew oneself. With that, the beginnings of the Workshop sprung from the ruins of the Great War. Perhaps it had been a twist of luck. Perhaps it was just a cult that would die down eventually from lack of revenue and attention. Perhaps once its use as a coping mechanism was done, it would be discarded._

 _Wind blows. Rain falls. It stuck. Now it can be found anywhere. Its cult status evolved into a worldwide religion. It became one more icon to consecrate alongside the others that were created by the Wizard, like the Four Maidens and the Relics, and some more._

 _It is actually an astonishing scene to behold._

 _Or rather, it was. Imagine my surprise when I found out it was not_ his _personal machinations. Imagine my curiosity when I realized that there was another player. Imagine my shock when I noticed that they had managed to avoid my sights for so long._

… _Imagine my delight when I finally found another worthy opponent._

* * *

 **A/N: A slightly longer chapter as an apology for a long wait. No promises will be made for earlier updates.**

 **-DarkAkatsuk1**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Bloodborne nor do I own RWBY.

* * *

Culture Shock

* * *

The port village of Tsushima was located on the westernmost fringe of Anima. It was a haven for those who had isolated themselves from eastern Mistral, yet had no wish to emigrate from the continent itself. It was a settlement where its occupants dedicated themselves to the art and philosophy of simple living. Never consuming more than necessary, yet never left unfulfilled. Disconnected, but never truly isolated.

But that was not what made Tsushima special.

Because of its distance from the empire itself, and thus its watch, this also meant that it was more susceptible to attacks, by Grimm and by bandits. That was supplemented by a self-imposed task: sith each attack on this port city, the inhabitants grew. Some lives were lost, and those lives were used as lessons. They become more humble, and as that humbleness grew, they turn towards spirituality to boost their self-assurance in their strength. Some would call this state of mind 'religious fanaticism'. They would not be far from the truth.

After all, the denizens of Tsushima turned towards the highest of beasts to revere and thank: the dragon. In particular, one of its kind. It was called the Sea Feilong. Serpentine in structure, deadly in design, it was a beast fit to be exalted and right to be feared. It was a Grimm, but the people did not concern themselves over that fact. It bore the appearance of a being equal to gods, and thus it was alright to worship it. To them, there was no shame in doing so.

So when one such beast of reverence rose from the sea situated in front of Tsushima's port, there was little frenzy of cries and call for defense. Almost all prostrated and prayed to this avatar of destruction that would end their lives. Fear was palpable, but it was with resignation and jubilation that they bore witness to such majesty.

To an outsider, it was utter madness.

All of that torrent of emotions caved into confusion and alertness when it did not attack like all Grimm were surmised to do, and even more so when the serpentine Grimm crashed down limply onto the port, deceased before it struck the ground, kicking up a dust cloud. Its innards spilled out in a cascade, painting a visceral picture of what had happened to it prior to its arrival. The fact that it was missing a large part of its mask, one of its wings was torn off, one of its spinal protrusion was rammed through its eye, along with a great deal of lacerations upon its entire body, only made the picture clearer. Unsure of what to do, the villagers elected representatives to survey the Grimm and ensure that it was dead or alive. A group approached the Grimm hesitantly, as though the gargantuan beast may be faking its untimely death despite the details that said otherwise.

A part of the exposed innards wiggled.

A hand exploded out, splattering any close by with Grimm gore.

There was a scream among the surveyors that echoed across, placing everyone on edge again. As the villagers charged forward with a roar in response to the cry, another hand dug out from the opening the previous hand had made.

Everyone stopped to watch with grotesque awe as a humanoid figure spilled out of the guts like a reborn phoenix arising from its ashes. Or perhaps more accurately, a maggot springing out of its parasitic host. Or to the uninitiated, an orphan leaving its dead mother's womb.

Frost emerged from the serpent corpse, blackened blood painting his hair dark and dripping from his frame top and bottom. The ichor was already smoking away to reveal his white hair once more. His eyes wandered over the people that were looking at him, then to the quagmire-like environment that he extricated himself into. It matched the description he had been given about the location he would arrive at back at the pier in Sanus.

Still, he would have to confirm his location, as well as wait for the captain to make shore. His horse Acha was still on the boat with him.

"Is this Tsushima?" He spoke clearly, as if he had not just emerged from a giant corpse. It had disappeared into a large plume of black by the time he said anything, smoke rising into the sky.

"Gedou…" One of them muttered in shock. The shock was shared with everyone who . Eyes were everywhere, from the pier all the way to the houses where children were peeking out of windows, curious as to why their parents or guardians did not want them outside.

Gedou. That was not a word he was familiar with. Perhaps it was a word from another language?

"Do you understand me?"

The blank stares they were giving him gave him the answer he needed. With that, he made for the pier and stood waiting. Minutes pass and he turned back to see that he was still being looked at like some animal in an exhibit.

They stared at him. He stared back.

"…I am going," he said calmly, hoping they at least understood the next five words, "…to wait for my horse."

* * *

 _Earlier, a boat had departed Sanus, estimated to arrive at Anima in 11 hours. Thus far, it had been a good quarter of a day, meaning that the vessel was halfway to its destination. It was a rather modest passenger boat, bearing flags that declared its neutrality in the war and ensured that it would not be sunk by any warships in the distance. And that was all there was to it; no heavy artillery, no cannons, no weapons to defend itself. It created the image of a simple merchant ship._

 _The passengers around Frost avoided making contact with him, making sure to clear away from the railings he was leaning forward against. With closed eyes and furrowed brows, a scarf wrapped to cover his mouth and neck, a strange triangle-like hat, an equally as strange choice of attire, and a scowl that left nearly permanent marks on his forehead, it was clear why no one would want to associate with the angry shady-looking man._

 _On the contrary, the Hunter was not angry but in pain. He was nursing his aching head. He thought he had been done with nightmares. They had not appeared in his dreams since the last month. Why now?_

 _"So." He heard a deep baritone rumble behind him. Frost opened his eyes to look at the person who finally took the time to greet him._

 _The man appeared grizzled, unkempt and entirely devoid of refinement. Tangled scarlet hair ruled over his head, only tamed by a hat that resembled his own hat. Adorned with a coat that barely reached his knees over a set of leather shirt and pants, and armed only with a cutlass and flintlocks that hung by his side, he resembled a corsair of the sea than he does a captain. Yet, the man still managed to smell relatively clean while looking like that._

 _"Yer te hoontah Ozzy gave 'is blessin' to."_

 _Frost looked taken aback. He smiled, revealing crooked teeth. "Whuzza matter? Ne'er met ah countryside sailor b'fore? Or izza Ursa got cha tongue?"_

 _It was the accent that threw him off. It was far rougher than Eileen's, but it was similar._

 _"No, it's just… there was another I knew that has that same accent."_

 _One of his eyebrows rose in delight. "Oh yeh? Wut part o' Anima?"_

 _"I don't know. I never got to know before she died…" he answered halfheartedly. Not necessarily a lie though._

 _"Ah." The captain fixed his hat quickly, "…Sorry 'bout dat."_

 _Frost did not hear him. He had returned to nursing his head. Singing. That was what he had heard in his nightmare. But it was not the typical melodious singing that one would connect with music. It was the singing of blood echoes. Beast blood, to be more specific. If he had to describe what it sounded like, he would call it 'screeching'. It was like that condition he once read about; tinnitus, he believed it was called._

 _He could hear the echoes of the Grimm, their growls and howls uttering through the recesses of his mind. He could also hear the echoes of the bandits he had slain only days prior, their horrified cries still conferring about. Both formed a confederate of sound, banding to bring forth his headache. He could feel their resentment. Their hatred. Their undying negativity. He did not care for them. So long as they remained dead, he could care less what they thought about him._

 _One of the three ways to deal with these echoes was to channel them towards his once sickly spirit, emboldening him. That had been one of the Doll's duties, and while he was also capable of that act, it took far longer for him and required utmost concentration. The second way required the Messengers, and he had yet to establish any contact with the Dream, effectively eliminating this option. The last way, of course, was to die. Seeing as how he had no plan to die yet, the former was the only option._

 _"...hoontah? Yeh dere, hoontah?"_

 _He felt someone shaking him. The captain was frowning at him. "Yeh dozed off or summin'? Ah said ah wuz sorry 'bout yer acquaintance, bein' dead 'n all."_

 _"No need to be," he replied, unfazed. "If Eileen heard that I felt sad for her death, she would come back just to gut me before I have time to run away."_

 _The captain chuckled airily, as though Frost had said something worthy of respect. "If ye say so, hoontah. So, d'ye gotta plan? Ozzy don' ask favors of'en, so dis mus' be an import'n matter."_

 _Frost looked directly at the man._

 _"I am looking for the Library of Rashomon."_

 _The man's smile disappeared. Slowly, discreetly, the Hunter readied himself for combat. Even if Ozpin could trust the captain, he did not mean that he had to as well. The aged man peeked left and right as though to see if there was anyone or anything nearby listening in. Slowly, he motioned Frost to come close._

 _"…Fer wut purpose?"_

 _"Knowledge."_

 _The captain frowned at the answer Frost had given, eyebrows furrowed in thought as he attempted to figure out the answer's implications._

 _"Ye' makin' yerself ah great enemy fahr too quickly," he whispered urgently. "Rashomon s'meant ta be known only by te, te high society, noot by te lower class includin' ahrselves. If ya know 'bout dat place, dat means yer once parta Mistral's high class, or yer an 'nfiltrator. Course, Ozzy and I know wut yer goin' 'ere fer."_

 _The Hunter frowned, both at the unspoken message and the presuppositions of the man's statement. The change in the man's attitude was concerning. Not concerning that he felt he was in danger, and more that attention from somewhere seemed to be focused on them and that would set the Hunter's progress back further than he would like. Had Ozpin held back some information that he should know?_

 _"Regardless, yer goin' to da wroong place. Ye'll not find Rashomon 'n Tsushima," the captain stepped back and continued in a normal volume, "Yer destination s'located on te treacherous slopes o' Naritoshi, and te only way ye could possibly get 'ere is thru' Mistral's authority. Or flyin', perchance ye grow wings alon' te way." The grizzled man laughed lightly at his own joke._

 _Frost hummed in thought._

 _"And where would that be?"_

 _"…Why?"_

 _"I'm going to climb it," was his simple, yet startling answer._

 _The captain looked at him as if he was cracked. "Yer aff yer heid, hoontah. Didn' ye listen or t'ose ears of ye jus' fer decoration? Slopes, mate! Slopes! Naritoshi got 'em slopes!"_

 _"I heard you the first time." Frost raised a brow at the man's repetition of word. "And I would appreciate that you do not think me insane. It is an insult to the legitimately insane."_

 _"I'zat right?" He whispered in shock. "Ozzy reeled inna fine work o' art, didn' he?"_

 _Frost opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted a howl of water suddenly erupting behind him. Turning around, he beheld a sight he had never seen before. A vast black shadow was its hide. Jagged protrusions lined its head and spine. Crimson eyes swiveled around the many targets moving about. Finally, its snout parted into a sneer ripe with hatred. A Grimm shaped more like an oriental styled dragon than any beasts he encountered before. In fact, it looked like it had came straight out of mythology to do battle, only to be deprived of its godhood._

 _But in the end, it was a Grimm. Regardless of how majestic it may be, it was still a beast. The core concepts applied._

 _"Sea Feilong." The captain whispered beside him. Frost frowned at the resignation behind the voice. "Das'it. Wer doomed 'fore we make it."_

 _As though it heard the captain's seeming last words, with eyes burning red with rage, the Sea Feilong roared. The primal instinct that dictated the fight-or-flight response ignited in every sailor and passenger on the ship, forcing them to buckle under the pressure and prostrate, or get as far away from the draconic beast of the seas._

 _Alone, Frost walked forth, ignoring the people who were running towards a shelter or lifeboat for dear life. The captain noticed this and attempted to hold back the suicidal fool, only to be surprised by the sheer strength in the Hunter's stride._

 _"We're dead, hoontah."_

 _"No, we're not," he said straightly._

 _"There is nothin' we can do to a Sea Feilong!"_

 _"I've never fought one of those things before. That just makes it fair."_

 _Burial Blade already in hand, he glared viciously at his quarry. The beast within cried with joy in anticipation at the inevitable bloodshed. The blade swung into a reverse grip as the Feilong lunged directly towards him, mouth agape to devour him whole._

 _He stabbed into the maw at the very moment it was in his range. And was taken along for a ride as it dove back into the water. One hand gripping an upper fang to keep from being swallowed, the other holding the blade down into its gum. Oxygen deprived in the water, he was completely at the Grimm's mercy. But that did not concern him._

 _The Grimm was now in his range._

 _The Burial Blade was dug out, a foot pressed against the bottom jaw, and stabbed through the roof of its mouth. Dug out and stabbed. Dug out and stabbed. Repeatedly. All while completely disregarding the change in pressure that would normally prevent a human from performing well underwater. Blood precipitated in the water as the Burial Blade continued its repetition. Finally, its mouth opened to roar soundlessly in pain and he was freed from its crushing bite. Still, he gripped onto its fang, fingers already cracked into its surface, determined to slay it before it rose out of the water._

 _He thrusted his weapon into its face like a pick, digging into its flesh. It shook voraciously, seemingly divining his intention, to get him off. He finally pulled the fang he had been gripping out of its mouth, causing more black blood to pour out, and slammed the beast's molar into its face. Concurrently using the blade and fang, he climbed towards the Feilong's cranium. Reaching his goal, he slammed the fang into one eye and punched it in. Before it could react accordingly, he stabbed his weapon into the other eye. Both hands gripped the Burial Blade pulled it up like a lever, intent on prying its head open._

 _Before he knew it, he was back above the surface, falling down as gravity recognized his existence once more and bore itself down on him. The Sea Feilong had lost both of its eyes and its breath as it remained underwater screaming itself hoarse for too long, thus resurfacing and raging at its inflicted disability. Lightning began discharging out of its mouth towards the sky like an ancient volcano awakened from its slumber, its fury witnessed by all on the boat. Memories of Darkbeast Paarl came to his mind, and he knew his path to victory._

 _Frost landed back on the ship deck, leaving a sizable dent as he pushed himself up slowly. It was a matter of time before it managed to sniff out his location. He had been very intimate with his administration on it, after all._

 _"Hoontah!" He heard someone call out to him. He ignored the voice in favor of the Grimm._

 _"You are strong, beast," he acknowledged, picking up his hat that had dropped when the serpent like Grimm dragged him along with it into the water. He paused and placed it back on the deck. It had managed to locate him already. The beast's maw opened, lightning particles gathering as it prepared to shoot another beam._

 _Frost narrowed his eyes at the expanding sphere and reacted. Evelyn was whipped dry and aimed but unlike before, it was now held with both hands._

 _He had ruminated over the sequence of actions the serpentine beast had taken to use that attack when it rampaged about briefly to the loss of its sight. At the moment of the attack, there was an infinitesimal lapse right before the shot, but it was there. It was like a flintlock pistol; the moment the trigger was pulled, the flint was struck against to create sparks, which would lead to a chain reaction of gunpowder combusting to discharge the bullet towards the target._

 _But what if the bullet hit something before it could exit the barrel? It would destroy the firearm itself due to the amount of kinetic energy suddenly stopped by the debris. It had the same result as though the pistol had been shot by another pistol._

 _Thus, precision and timing was key. It was entirely theoretical, but there were no other options except to get struck by the attack and be decimated. He had to take the shot at the very moment the Feilong shot its pillar of concentrated lightning. If he failed, the ship along with its occupants will be demolished. **That shall not happen**. His eyes glowed astral blue, all of his concentration placed into that one shot._

 _ **THERE!**_

 _The vaunted firearm of Cainhurst detonated, a singular quicksilver bullet corkscrewing through the air. It was as if the entire world slowed down time to witness this event. At the point of impact, the silver entered the Feilong's throat and imploded. Its entire head vaporized, its coiled body slacking and falling back into the ocean. Saltwater splashed high, nearly causing a tidal wave from the impact of the body that vaporized into black smoke seconds later. There was a mute pause, as though no one was sure how to react to their lives being saved._

 _A hesitant cheer rang. Then another. Then another. Soon, everyone no longer held back and celebrated their impossible survival. It would not last long. The cheers became cries as another Sea Feilong arising from the ocean surface, red eyes brimming with hatred and vengeance. A companion of the one Frost had slain earlier. All of the attention of the sea beast focused only on him, however._

 _"There were two." Frost made a clinical observation, being the only one to not celebrate prematurely. He knew it had been too easy. Life was not that merciful. Far larger than the other, he was left with little choice. The beast was after him as vengeance for killing its brethren. If he stayed, the ship would no doubt sink…_

 _"I have a plan." He stated to the captain, who was shocked into stutters at the appearance of two Sea Feilongs. "You will continue your trek to Tsushima. Like everything is over. It seems the beast is only after me."_

 _He looked at the Hunter like he was looking at an alien. The captain laughed in disbelief._

 _"Yer cracked–"_

 _"Better I do something than nothing."_

 _Without saying any further, Frost charged and leapt over the railing, off the deck towards the approaching Grimm. The larger, older Sea Feilong swallowed him whole and dived into the deep waters._

 _He allowed it._

* * *

He only had to wait for two hours. Meaning, he had done combat with that beast and resided in that beast's innards for three hours or so.

The boat reached the port he was waiting at, a modest cargo ship carrying various supplies that ranged from basic sustenance to craft materials. The passengers of the boat passed by him, eyes locked on him as though they could not believe what they were seeing. A few even stopped and said prayers to him, much to his confusion. Once they were all dispersed, one last person approached him.

"…Gods be praised. Ye live, hoontah!" The first words that came from the captain were of surprise, relief, and merriment, accompanied by that heavy accent similar to Eileen's. "Ah 'ad halfa thought ye be a suicidal fool too far in 'is own 'ead. I mus' owe ye an apology fer thinkin' yu ah dull-witted wank-stain!"

…He immediately understood at least a quarter of the entire dialogue. The rest were still filtering through. A sigh escaped him.

"No. You had every right to doubt. Lady Minet did not have a high opinion of me either." Frost brushed away the apology.

"Ah, da lass?" The captain perked at the mention of Vale's Dame Commander with a fond expression. "Tough gal, she is. Bit of prick up te arse tho', but Ozzy's always been good at seein' value 'n people who'd los' demselves."

Frost stored that nugget of information for later use. He heard a snort and watched a pale horse trot up to him from the boat. "Acha. You live." She chuffed, seemingly displeased at his surprised statement. Quickly, he placated the slighted mare by giving her sufficient face and neck scratches.

"Damn fine mare ye got, hoontah. Ne'er saw 'er panic or pain te others," the captain complimented the horse. "Sum past 'orses damn near capsize mah las' ship inna panic. Suffice ta say, not a 'orse person anymore."

"I can imagine." Frost recalled the last time he was in front of rampaging horses. In retrospect, stepping back outside that stable had been among the most reasonable actions he had taken before. He would have retired a lot earlier had he stayed in there longer. He began saddling Acha up as the captain went and spoke with the crowd. Slowly, they dispersed but some lingered to watch him. It was almost suspicious, the Hunter quickly took note of. It was as if they knew who he was. And the only people he knew of were…

Acha was properly saddled, well fed, and ready to move out. He climbed atop just as the captain returned with a grim expression.

"…Te townspeople 'ere," the captain spoke up. "Dey call ye Gedou."

There was some significance in that name. Frost frowned at the title, trying to discern its meaning.

"Ye dunno, dun ye?" The captain shook his head in disappointment. Not at him. "In 'ere Mistral, or 'roun 'is area, te Sea Feilong's revered as 'n unforgiving sea god. Even if it's ah Grimm, te fact 'at it looks 'ike 'em dragon 'em numpties atta top o' Mistral luv drawin' pictures of, do little ta dissuade dem. Wut s'more, s'up shite creek in Tsushima wut wid rampan' religion 'n crackpot beliefs. Seein' te death of one by yer 'ands, 'ey see ye as sum being dat can kill gods. Nutheads, all o' 'em."

Frost was entirely unimpressed by the sound reasoning, even if he could accept it. By the looks of it, the captain shared the same opinion.

He continued, "In te ' _ancient Mistralli dialect_ '," he quoted rather mockingly, complete with finger gestures, "'Gedou' means aboot te same as 'demon'. And demons 'ave long been te opposite of te divine. So, best make yer way out 'fore sum pillock get any bright ideas 'bout confrontin' ye as a 'eretic."

The Hunter breathed out. That… actually, that would be problematic through a certain perspective. Still, "Let them believe what they want to believe. I am not here to spread a religion. I am here to find answers."

"After te shite ye made me see? Ah've ta believe in ye now," the captain shook his head, still processing the marvel Frost had made him witness. "Naritoshi's east o' 'ere. Should take yeh 'bout three four days. Gud luck to yeh. Ye'll need it more 'an me."

The Hunter hummed. "…I never got your name, captain."

The man suddenly laughed, as if remembering an embarrassing mishap he committed as a child.

"Ahab. Captain Ahab of the Melville."

"Frost. Hunter Frost." He took the captain's hand and shook.

"May te gods watch over ye, Hoontah Frost. Nex' time we meet, drink's on meh. Per'aps we can even go whalin'."

Frost nodded in acknowledgment. Captain Ahab saw his business on Tsushima concluded and parted for his ship.

"One last warnin'. Beware of Hitokiri."

* * *

 _How many times had he died?_

 _He could not remember._

… _Two to being swarmed by mobs of mad huntsmen. Three to being ambushed by madmen in hiding. One to being crushed by trolls. Four to being torn apart by dogs. Two to being slammed and bifurcated by an axe. One to falling off a balcony to his death. Three to being shot in the head from behind. One to being burned alive. Two to getting smashed with repeatedly with bricks. Two to getting chewed by rats and impaled by large huntsmen. One to being grabbed and crushed against the ground by a colossal beast. One. Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen… none to divide, what did it matter?_

 _ **So Kill.**_

 _He stopped his stride, muttering obscenities. Mumbling curses he would not have done normally. But what was normal now? What exactly were curses and obscenities? Phrases to put one's self under blissful hypnosis? Words to fling uselessly around while dying in pain? Utterances that serve nothing but to alleviate one's own misfortune?_

 _ **So Kill.**_

 _Damned beast. Accursed fiends. They deserve to die. All of them vermin, only deserving to die in agony. How many times must they stand in his path? How many times must he imbibe himself with blood? How many times must this suffering continue to accrue?_

 **So Kill.**

 _He finally obeyed._

 _The Saw Cleaver rose and thrashed it about, attempting to destroy his target. He felt splinters shooting at him, but he cared nothing for them. All he needed to do was kill. Kill. Kill. KILL. KILL!_ _ **KILL!**_ _What did it matter? Beasts all around him. Breathing down HIS BACK. Biting into HIS NECK. Blood in HIS EARS. It slides down, into HIS EYES. What was speaking? What was that? What was making him think and not think? What was who and why? Here and there? There or here?_

 _ **ALL OF IT!**_

"… _stop! It's beasts you hunt!"_

 _The voice pierced through his brain. A feminine voice._

" _Why are you behaving like one?"_

 _He regained himself. The door in front of him was marred, wrecked with damage, but it remained strong and unyielding._

" _This can't be the real you. Please, stop…"_

 _He lowered the serrated weapon down in dawning horror. What happened? He… he only obeyed that voice. How did…? When did he arrive at the clinic?_

 _His lips trembled underneath the scarf._

"… _Iosefka."_

 _Panicked breathing ceased, calming down before replying, "Are you calm again?" He nodded, even though he knew she could not see him. A deep breath in and out sufficed, however. There was relief in her voice as she continued, "Thank goodness. You mustn't let the hunt overcome you. Remember yourself. You are not a beast."_

 _Remember himself. Not a beast. Remember himself. Not a beast. Remember… remember…_

…

 _He crashed against the door and slumped down, defeated. The saw cleaver and blunderbuss battered against the ground, echoing in the corridor that led to the clinic and slid down._

'I don't want to do this anymore.' _This was not like war at all. At least with war, he was offered the courtesy of dying only once. A courtesy he obviously had not taken. A courtesy he rejected with all his might. A decision he regretted not taking now. He wished he had died so that he would not have lived to suffer this._

 _Fighting beasts and dying constantly, fighting to retain his own mind, fighting and yet not knowing why, who he was, and what he was supposed to do anymore, and now his own sanity was his enemy… he broke down. He did not feel any shame in crying like a child. His face met his palms. His sobs reached none except the woman behind the door._

 _There was no room for weakness. He knew that. Still, he wept. He just wanted all of this to be over. A simple, childish desire._

"… _The night is long, but morning always come." Iosefka spoke softly through the door, sensing his peril. He grasped onto the words like a drowning man. "Someone of your caliber won't fail us. I am certain."_

 _She did not know what to say to comfort him. How could she? What would one not suffering from the Ailment know the pain of one who does? Yet she spoke anyways. He discerned the intention behind the action and appreciated it. Was this really the time to give up yet? He may continue to cry, but the dices would continue to roll. He was but a player who must play. For his own sake._

 _He stood up, the Saw Cleaver and Blunderbuss back in his hands. Slowly he walked back to Central Yharnam. Iosefka spoke up again,_

" _And once the night of the hunt ends… perchance if you return, we can speak face-to-face. Then I can finally see what you look like." There was a glimmer of hope. "I shouldn't be thinking this, but…"_

 _She gave a quiet chuckle. He breathed out. In the distance, the bell tolled._

" _I am rather looking forward to it," she finished. "…I'm sorry. I have nothing else to offer you. I will pray for your safety. May light shine upon this night, and your fortunes."_

 _And it looked like it would… until he returned. His cleaver was gone but in its place was Gascoigne's axe. His cape had torn off when he explored the Cathedral Ward, which had came off inexplicably by an unknown force he could not yet see. His Blunderbuss had yet to be replaced. He had only wanted to make sure she was doing fine so far in the night…_

" _Oh. Well, hello… Splendid."_

 _The voice was different. It was not her._

 _ **So Kill.**_

 _Just another nightmare._

* * *

And promptly, he woke up and dove under a nearby table. Gunfire rang. Shattered glass pelted as a hail of bullet shot through the abandoned hut he found and stayed in. Projectiles destroyed the decorative ornaments that hung or stood around the area. He quickly pushed the table down to shield him from the rain of lead or whatever metals the flying projectiles were made of.

The nightmare faded away in his mind, replaced by the combat instinct that was needed to fend off the sudden intrusion of his privacy.

Two days. That was how long it had been since he arrived in Tsushima, and yet it only felt like a few hours had passed. Acha was a very robust mare, but even she could feel the fatigue of traveling for days on end without break. It was when fate dictated that he rested, placing in front of him a cabin that seemed abandoned but with all the essentials needed for a few days away from civilization. It had been suspicious and reeked of a trap to Frost, but in the end, he took the bait to see what would happen.

As it turned out, he was correct in his assumption.

He knew that he would get himself into trouble when he arrived on Anima. Still, he would have appreciated it if it had not been at night, even if he could understand the reasoning behind it. Strike the enemy at their weakest. Harass them when they were at ease.

A brutal, yet simple strategy of war.

The gunfire ceased. The Burial Blade was already in hand. As for Acha, he hoped that the horse was instinctive or smart enough to make itself scarce before this. ' _So much for a good night sleep_ ,' he sighed out, closing his eyes. But then again, he did not have to deal with that earlier dream sequence anymore.

"Go in and get the body."

He heard one of them speak hoarsely. He did not know if these people knew about him, but he had a good idea that if they do, then he knew from where it began. Back at that hamlet, Tsushima… that was where the trouble began. There was someone who was against him that witnessed his arrival. His plan of entering Mistral quietly and leaving just as quietly in search of Rashomon was ruined the moment he gutted himself open from that Sea Feilong. He should have known by then. Now the question was, ' _Who are these perpetrators?_ '

Mistral's self-defense spy network? A probable answer. An "ally" of the Inganno, the Talavera or the Branwen? A likely conclusion. Natives that just do not like outsiders? Another possibility. Witch hunters from Tsushima that the captain mentioned earlier? Not out of the question. So many possibilities, but he would find out for himself now.

The lone door opened. Four figures came in. The moment one of them came up close…

Blue eyes opened, glowing eerily. One turned in his direction. Muscles coiled, and sprung into action.

* * *

 _The subject of the Great War remains controversial to this day, but it is mitigated by the countless accounts of how it ended. Some would proclaim that the Vacuo campaign was what ended the war itself, and it is not hard to discern why that is so. The campaign's failure had rendered both Mantle and Mistral of their supplies, munitions, armaments, and any essentials to continue fighting. Morale struck ground and below dirt, while Vale and Vacuo stayed strong despite being on the same economical and military level as them._

 _But if one looked closer, they would see that that is not the case. Every circumstances that happened in the years before the war must be expounded. Every factors that led to those circumstance must be examined. Every determinants that influenced those factors must be elucidated. And once all of them have been taken into consideration, we would arrive at this statement:_

 _The beginning of the Great War's end actually started in Anima._

 _We must first understand that while Mistral accepted the conditions to abolish the arts and self-expression to remain in Mantle's good grace, the ban was only extended to the outer territories of the continent. It is only further exacerbated by the central, higher society's exemption from this embargo of emotions, leading to well-masked resentment amongst the lower class._

 _And with resentment came the birth of the Mistralli Independence and Liberation Front. A rebellion spearheaded by none and led by all. With help from Valean spies and soldiers that had infiltrated the continent, they led the fight for their right to freely express themselves and overthrow the government at the time. In short, Mistral was entangled in two wars, one overseas and one in its own home. It did not help that Grimm attacks, Valean shock troops, and rises in bandit activity (and their sudden, subsequent decrease) raised more matters for the officials. To say that it was dire times in Anima was not an exaggeration._

 _But the last straw that dealt the final blow to Mistral's capabilities was not any of the above. It was merely the surfacing of one man. Eyewitness accounts state that the man came from the quaint fishing hamlet of Tsushima, but the truth remains unconfirmed to this day._

 _He is only known as 'Gedou', not to be confused with 'Hitokiri', which is another topic for another day._

 _As if he was a monster reborn into the material world, he committed the greatest atrocity against Mistral: setting afire the Library of Rashomon, the symbol of the kingdom's cultural knowledge. All efforts to put the fire out was met with murder by the monster himself. Any attempts to slay the perpetrator responsible for the arson were eliminated by Gedou. Descending from the top of Mt. Naritoshi, he left behind a bloodbath and the destruction of ancient codices and scrolls that would never be recovered again._

 _It could be argued that Gedou lit the spark that ended the War on Mistral's end. Or it was just the response of an angry god. Or someone just went mad. Could be anything, really._

 _Either way, let it be a lesson for later generations: when there's a war, burn the library down._

– _Excerpt from a "B-" essay by a Signal Academy student (reduced from an "A" for going off topic)_

* * *

 **A/N: I channel my inner chuuni to write out disturbing scenes. I daresay I am doing a good job. On a sidenote, I should probably change the 'Mystery' tag to 'Horror' if I want to make more sequences like the dream scene.  
**

 **-DarkAkatsuk1**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Bloodborne nor do I own RWBY.

* * *

Unfolding Old Tales

* * *

 _Crunch._

 _There was a dead Hunter down in the sewers. He had pilfered the man's corpse, seeing as how he no longer needed the clothes that protected him, what with him busy being… well, dead. It did not bother him that he was looting, but rather, he was respecting the dead Hunter by using his wardrobe to protect himself. The man's death would contribute to another's livelihood in death. That was the twisted way he granted himself a sort of peace of mind regarding his sacrilege towards the dead._

 _Wail._

 _Not long after he had donned the dead man's gears, he was killed by impalement from behind, his body disappearing into wisps before he hit the floor far below. Once more, he woke back up at the lamp in front of Gilbert's temporary residence. Once more, the sickly man wondered how he had not heard his footsteps but dismissed it in favor of coughing violently, his ailment continuing to destroy his body and mind from within. Once more, he charged back into Central Yharnam in an attempt to right the wrongs that led to his previous death._

 _Swish. Click. Pop. Splatter._

 _Swish. Click. Pop. Splatter._

 _Two trolls with bricks dead. Chased by infected mutts as he descended the staircase and past the lonely old woman who threw vitriol at him as he passed by. He grabbed one of them by the jaw as it jumped at him, immediately ripped it off and slammed the teethed side at another's head, shattering both the jaw itself and the head. The Saw Cleaver detracted out and bifurcated the third that had sunk its canines into his leg in his carnage and the Blunderbuss silenced the last with a deafening **BANG**._

 _The dogs were all dead. Blood slowly seeped out of the open wound on his leg. A blood vial found on one of the trolls easily fixed it at the cost of his mind going slightly numb. Slowly, he walked away into the building he had stumbled across as he was running away. At the side, he saw an opening obstructed by barrels. He pushed them away and jumped down._

 _Thud._

 _Silence._

 _Remember himself. He was not a beast._

… _He sorely needed a break._

 _He spied an exit where the setting sun still shone. Traversing towards it, watching out to not trip and fall down towards the area that led to his last death, he left the building and out towards the stone balcony that showed a sight of Central Yharnam. Faintly, he wondered what Yharnam had looked like before the Beast Plague ever came forth. Despite its defilement, the city still managed to maintain its opulence. It was a shadow, but an impressive one nonetheless. The only difference between this particular balcony and all of the others was the lone figure that stood watch… figure? Crow feathers. A figure in all black. Beast? …No. Not a beast. Huntsman? Too regal, not like the others. They heard his footsteps and turned towards him._

" _Oh? A hunter, are ya? And an outsider?"_

 _A foreign tone of the hinterlands not beheld by madness entered his auditories. A welcome reprieve from the senseless curses of infected townspeople and growls and screeches of beastly beings. An woman dressed in semblance of a crow complete with a beaked mask, outfitted to entirely blend with the night, spoke to him. How fitting, he mentally murmured._

" _What a mess you've been caught up in. And tonight, of all nights." She spoke with no pity, as though it was expected. That… was good, he thought. Pity was the last thing he wanted right now. Iosefka had provided enough. She dug out a hand holding something within._

" _Here, to welcome the new hunter."_

 _She beckoned him forth. Slowly, hesitantly, he brought a hand forth to receive whatever it was this person was giving him, then retracted it quickly towards his weapon when her fingers slackened. An amused snort escaped the beaked mask._

" _Wariness. A good trait to have in this forsaken city. It means you are not so much a fool to believe in a stranger. But I assure you, this will help a Dreamer."_

 _He stared at her, wondering how she knew of the Hunter's Dream. This time, he received them without fear. Four stones with an unfamiliar rune on them, all brimming with a strange sense of boldness. The runes etched themselves into his mind and quite suddenly, he felt a solid connection to the lamp he had last been at, and by proxy, to the Dream. Such a trick felt too good to be true, and yet there it was._

 _The stones crumbled away from his palm, their task done. He stared at the figure again._

" _I am Eileen," she introduced herself, bowing slightly in greeting. "All you need know is that we are both Hunters. We merely hunt different preys."_

 _He had the very distinct feeling that she was staring meaningfully at him. Instinctively, he took a step back from the crow-motif Hunter._

" _Now, prepare yourself for the worst. There are no humans left. They're all flesh-hungry beasts now. Unless…"_

 _Eileen disappeared from his sight. A warped blade found its way at the base of his neck. Eileen had somehow appeared behind him without his notice, one arm poised at his neck like a knife and the other hugged around his shoulder,_

" _You have become one of them as well?"_

 _He slowly turned his head towards the Hunter behind him, eyes attempting to gaze into the mask that covered her face entirely. She must have found what she wanted, as she retracted her weapon and stepped away. "No, of course not. You have not yet become drunk, regardless of the scent of blood. Forgive an old woman for her worry."_

 _It seemed to be commonplace now. People trying to kill him, and him not even flinching at the thought of dying. Still, the thought of dying and being unable to do anything about it still made him shiver. She was far, far better than him. Even if the foreign voice in him screamed its anger and urged him to rip her viscus out, logic, reasoning, and common sense told him that she could string him up and gut him without effort._

" _So enough trembling in your boots."_

 _Eileen walked past him and left the railings, splitting her blade into two. Confidence exuded from her lithe frame, which could only be borne from time and experience._

" _A Hunter must hunt."_

* * *

Frost stirred and woke to crumbling gravels. He tilted and leaned his head forth to avoid the descending rocks, then watched them fall down past him with dreary eyes…

…Down the slopes of the mountain he was climbing himself until they could not be seen. The sight was only a reminder that it was too late to turn back. With hands gripped against the crevasses of the mountain, he pulled himself up. His feet clambered calmly for any openings with traction. When there were no holes or breaks to hold onto, he made them through a preternatural method of slamming clawed fingers against the cliffs, purchasing through them like butter.

He could have searched around the area for another path to go up the mountain, but there was a reason why he decided to climb it instead, just as he had told Ahab – that reason being the bandit tribe that was situated near Rashomon, and the very same tribe that the ones who ambushed him were from.

The echoes within his mind came forth and supplied him in the voice of his last kill—

 _They are the Talavera tribe._

 _Their main base of operation is located on the slopes of Mt. Naritoshi, one of Mistral's highest mountains. It is a risky yet safe location to set up at, both for its cover and its location. And with scholars and the brightest minds of Mistral apparently gathered near the top, they hide using those people as a shroud._

 _Oh, they know about the institution at the top of this mountain. They are smart enough to not approach it and reveal themselves, so who knows what is in there? There is a reason for everything, after all. That same thought applies to their choice of location._

 _Plus, no one is foolish enough to climb the mountains on their own without an aircraft to assist, and if there are, they can easily hide their presence until it passes by. There is only one passage to their hideout by foot, and it is through a cave that they found while searching for a place to call their own. Only they are privy to it and thus, they place traps to separate the ones who were aware of their locations and those who are not. Anyone else is given the decision to be join, die, or submit. The ones alive made the right choice._

 _They specialize in many under-the-table works. Raiding a passing carriage with little security details is fair game to them. Assassination is not an uncommon request. Even smuggling is not exempt from their scope. But above all else, their main specialty is in… they prefer to call it "corporeal embezzlement". With such a high demand for labor and services and little desire to pay back with fairness and such among the high society of Mistral, there is little surprise that the Talavera would jump at such a high rewarding occasion. They are very "economical", after all._

 _Their modus operandi is simple. Simply seize the goods at every given opportunity, transport said goods to nearest cities that will host them, collect their rewards, and make off before the law enforcement catches breath of them. Of course, the goods need not be experienced. Simply willing. And if not willing, then submissive. A few broken goods does not hamper business for them._

 _Some will call this practice "human trafficking", or even "slavery". Those are too powerful words. The word implies that they do not care for the sanctity of life. They are not monsters, if they have any say in it. If anything, they are giving the weak a purpose to live for. It is better than dying without contributing to anything. It is a world of 'dog eats dog', after all. Weaklings are not needed._

 _And isn't living better than becoming nourishment to the soil?_

 _So, for all intents and purposes,_ _they_ _a_ _re very benevolent._ _The Branwen should take notes on them._ _They are far too busy praising their "Holy Child" to even do any actual work._

—Such was the information his ambushers' echoes told him. And they told him enough. From all of that to the foreign tongue that they spoke, and to their location and all of the traps they had set at their own entrance, which served as more reason to climb. The echoes never established the exact locations of the traps, only that there were many and that it would take far too long to locate and disable them all quietly.

It had been hours since. He also might not have been cognizant when he made the decision to climb.

Frost shook his head. His body arched upward and jumped past a large gap that challenged his ascent. Fingers punctured through rock and he continued climbing tirelessly. Little by little. Baby steps. Just as a child would crawl before it could begin to walk. Just as a child would walk before they learned to run. Just as it had always been. Patience was a virtue, no?

Time passed once more as he rose up the treacherous slopes, uncaring about the pieces that fell past him. He did not know how long it had been since he climbed. All he knew was that he had brushed by death two times before he finally reached a spot that allowed some resemblance of a plateau. By then, sunlight cracked the tip of the mountain range. There he rested… but before he could, he heard the sound of activity.

His rest came to a premature stop.

Frost recalled the echoes once more. Familiarity that was not his own washed over him as he took in the unknown environment. Talavera had set themselves up around this area, and this particular region was functionally the backyard of the tribe's location. The Hunter did not know how to feel between exhausted and languid. The night had long since passed and he was out in the open for all to see. A hopeful, naive part of him wondered if they would show hospitality. It was quashed immediately, though he was surprised that he was still capable of it.

In the end, he approached the tribe just as they began to stir from their sleep. They saw him and reacted accordingly. An outsider came from nowhere. That was enough reason to call up arms.

"It's him…!"

The echoes translated their words. He could understand them more clearly now. He saw them draw their weapons as they called for further reinforcement. A horn was sound and he fully understood.

"Gedou!"

The title spreaded quickly, he faintly noted.

"Where did he come from?!"

"Shit! SHIT!"

"No, not Grimm too! Not now! DAMNIT, TO ARMS!"

Grimm. Scum. Beast. There were no differences. He slammed his blade against the handle on his back and using the momentum that came from it springing out, he swung the scythe out—

— _And another beast down. Even when bifurcated, they still try to claw their way to his neck. A bullet to the head resolved the problem._

 _ _Miserable wretches. He could not afford to feel sympathy when a moment of weakness could stifle his progress._ _It mattered little._ _He needed to move forward._ _He needed… he needed to do something… what was it? He needed to get to the…_ _the_ _Healing Church?_ _He shook his head in an attempt to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He was supposed to be… doing something. What was it?__

 _ _What was it?__

 _ _"…You are a skilled hunter."__

 _He heard a voice from above. It was distant, but he heard it nonetheless. It was weary and grizzled, touched by remorse, trauma, and empty revelry. A tone of a veteran Hunter, he realized. And he was by no means friendly._

 _"Adept, merciless, half-cut with blood. As the best hunters are."_

 _He felt a very strong sense of foreboding. That was not a compliment. That was an observation. He searched for the voice and found the source. Upon a tower overlooking the entirety of Old Yharnam, beside a mounted gatling gun, an ash-covered man strode behind the artillery. Slowly, the barrel began spinning in place._

 _The ashen Hunter had taken control of the heavy machine gun._

" _Which is why I must stop you…!"_

 _A hailstorm of bullets. All of them aimed at his viscus. He ran for dear life, dodging the thunderous rain of quicksilver and lead that was beset upon him. Not a beast, or perhaps he was. Whatever he was, he still sought to bar his path._

 _ **End Him.**_

 _He had to be dealt with. The pathway around him was unfamiliar, but then again Old Yharnam was unfamiliar to begin with. As he ran, a few stray bullets grazed him. They were inconsequential individually, but they built up quickly. He had to run away and hide from the man's point of view or wait and strafe until the artillery ran out of munitions. Neither were good options and there were no good options. And just when he was about to make his decision, an obstacle arose._

 _Another Hunter. Just as ashen as the one on the tower. Just as deadly. He came charging like a spectre with a Saw Spear. He had dodged the serrated edge that was slashed at him but before he could retaliate, the ashen Hunter had retreated and ran away. No, he was luring him to another field to gain advantage. Faintly, he noted that he was learning how Hunters hunted._

 _He took the bait. He ran towards the ashen Hunter but just as he was within striking range, he backed away and ran away as well, turning his back towards his opponent. As he ran, he heard the man catching up to him and was soon behind his back. Quickly, as swift as the spear that flung out, he ducked under the serrated weapon, raising Gascoigne's axe to cleave upward—_

—Causing blood to spill out like a faucet from the body that suffered the Burial Blade's ministration.

He did not bother registering the cries of anger and terror around as he stepped callously over the fresh corpse. What use were they? They did not bring him any joy, and while the beast inside may enjoy the bloodshed, he did not. It could argue all it wanted about how he and it were one and the same. He was himself. Not a beast.

Pop.

A body fell. A stab downward to ensure a kill.

Pop.

A knee blown away. A horizontal slash to remove head.

Clang!

Edge met. Evelyn's butt met the adversary's chin fiercely, knocking her unconscious.

He tilted away, avoiding a Beowulf's rending claw from behind that made its way into and through the miserable soul in front of him. The man was promptly torn to shreds subsequently as he was swarmed in his weakness and despair.

…Right. There were Grimm as well. Beowulves in droves. Nevermores as well, although they were much smaller than the one he killed back on Sanus. Claws and fangs from all around. Divebombs from Nevermores from everywhere above. Not a single room to retreat or dodge towards. Just as he wanted them to. They were all within his space, and he was the executioner.

Scythe in hand, Frost became a whirlwind of steel and bullets. Bereft of physics, the Burial Blade sliced through every Grimm it made contact with. Evelyn spun about, switching from front grip to reversed grip, trigger pulled by index and little finger respectively and reloading just as quickly. More came. More died. The bandits who managed to escape Frost's sight quickly vanished as he continued slaughtering the Grimm. An unfortunate one was crushed as a gargantuan gorilla fell upon and battered her until she was nothing but mush.

A cracked mask adorned its face. Red rage surged in its eyes, as if insulted by the one that dare stand against its dominance. It roared an angry challenge towards the Hunter and beat its chest in intimidation.

 _That is a Beringel._ An echo called to him.

He crouched forward in a stance, ready for whatever this Beringel had in stall for him. Two Beowulves jumped over it, causing the gorilla-like beast to seize them by their hind legs and swing them at him like clubs. He swayed back, dodging, pivoting around, and ducking under each swing that were further extended by the lupines' claws that had pursed out from the momentum. When he attempted to retreat, one of them was thrown at him, fangs and claws bared to rend flesh. A part of his mind marveled at how far the Grimm could progress when it came to killing. Another was repulsed at the pointless endeavor and ordered their immediate death.

He slashed the flying Beowulf's head off and fired a headshot at the second one that flew at him. The Beringel had jumped high into the air the moment it hurled the second, fists raised back to smash him to pieces. It looked ready to have a contest of strength. Frost did not humor it. Instead, he reached to his back and threw an object into the air and at the very moment the gorilla beast nearly made contact, he vanished.

It landed and smashed the area into a crater, confused at where its target was. The object in the air dropped down and cracked, spilling oil all over its body. Then in front of it, Frost reappeared from air with a molotov and chucked the flaming concoction. The beast was lit aflame, a walking bonfire as it thrashed about in pain, slamming and demolishing whatever was within its reach and killing many Grimm for him. In the storm of its violence, its hand dug into the ground and flung large amounts of jagged rock and pebbles that pelleted against him and sent him flying back against a tree.

Ah. That hurt, he understated. His ribs were clearly cracked and a deep gash had made its home above his eyebrows, causing blood to bleed over his eyes. The world went red for a moment. He would not make that particular mistake again. A blood vial was crushed, and the pain receded along with his wounds grotesquely.

As it rampaged, it did not notice him climb onto its back and place his scythe against its neck. It would pay for its inattention with a reversed guillotine. With his foot against its head, he _pulled_. The death throes of the Beringel was muffled by Frost immediately clutching its decapitated head as he fell and smashing it viciously towards another charging Beowulf, splattering brain and skull matters everywhere. It coated the pale hunter with gore.

Slowly, he began to covet Grimm ichor. As more blackened blood was shed, more echoes gathered in him. As more echoes built up, the more he learned about the Grimm.

Their alien biology.

Their behavioral pattern.

Their core traits.

Their ancient _origins_.

Inhuman memories of a transcendent being full of envy and hatred towards its elder sibling assaulted his Eyes. There he stood before divinity, beings that could not be judged by the mortal concepts of good and evil, beings whose will were made reality. Bow down in worship or recoil in revulsion. It mattered not, for what was Humanity worth compared to the Divine? The understandings of a god were not the same as the understandings of a mortal, so what right did the latter have to breach the realm of the former?

Yet at the same time, as one's insight grew, their frenzy grew as well. Sanity was not a dweller in a madman's mind, for what dwell in their head was reserved only for knowledge. It was simply not a requirement. _He enjoyed_ _the sensation_. The brain was not meant to gather such knowledge at such an accelerated pace. It would fry itself in its frenzy before the information was processed fully.

Thus, the haze went away at his will. The Nevermores that had dotted the sky had retreated elsewhere when its brethren were being slaughtered. Frost turned his eyes towards the surviving bandits that looked at him fearfully. Right… _them_. He had forgotten about them.

He made a show and reloaded Evelyn slowly. He did not flinch at the firearms that were raised at him in some measly attempt to deter him.

"Tell me. Do you hear the bell toll?" He spoke into the silence. His eyes shimmered an eerie blue. "It calls for your end. Accept and make peace with yourself, for this is your only chance to rest in peace."

Then in their sense, they _felt_ it. A bell not of this world struck clear and with it, called for Death.

"W-wait!"

He did not.

Talavera was no more. Branwen was next.

* * *

The Hunter looked up towards the peak of the mountain. Rashomon was not far and only required a few more meters of climbing. Who knew how many other traps were laid if he decided to hike instead? No one in their right mind would want to climb the mountains, so that meant that that was the safer option.

It should be clear now that people had different definitions for the word "safe", compared to Frost's.

A couple of meters climbed, and he had reached what appeared to be Rashomon's entrance. Only… it did not feel like an entrance. Oh, it was not a trap either. Something was still off about it. It felt like something he had seen before.

"…How curious."

How long had it been since this great library was occupied? It was far too decrepit to be suitable for living in. Mold and mildew grew in the corner of the entrance. Dust built up in every corner he could see from the outside.

…No matter. Such details were meaningless if they did not give him answers or stood in his way. He entered the dilapidated entrance to find his answers.

* * *

It was empty. He had already traveled down the stairs from the entrance and still, he had yet to find another living soul. A hand reached out to brush against the wall. A wall of dust fell on him, coating him in layers of fine particles of whatnot that clearly spoke of Rashomon's age.

It really was too old. When was the last time anyone actually entered this place? The memories of the Talavera were outdated and uninformed. It had taken him hours to descend down the library and yet, he had not seen a sliver of life. It could not be that this library was forgotten. How could such a place of knowledge, of which its interiors bore a vague liking to Byrgenwerth, be abandoned so easily? Even with a Great War, such a place should not be neglected to a degree like this.

Was it hiding something, or was it built to house something not to be seen by the public?

His answer came in the form of a faint glow that did not match the gloom and darkness of the library downwards. He went further, where he could make out bookcases upon bookcases of scrolls, books, maps, and collections of stationeries that were thankfully not as moldy as Rashomon's entrance.

But they were not what caught his attention. It was the object that was directly in the middle of all of them that did.

…A lantern?

Frost furrowed his brows in question. It glowed varying levels of celestial blue, trimmed with genuine gold arches and swirls. Floating upon a pedestal that was clearly designed to match the same intricacies of the lantern itself, it seemed to present a prescient telling that only required one to… do something. What that "something" was, he did not know.

But it was with certainty that Frost could declare: this was a relic of great importance.

A tentative hand rose towards the strange lantern. He really should have learned his lesson in touching strange glowing objects, like the skull of the beast after his encounter with Amelia. The moment his gloved finger brushed against it,

 _A heartbeat was heard in his head._

 _Who Are You?_

He stumbled back and cleared his mind. A voice that was not his own resounded. A feminine tone that was as mystifying as it was curious continued to echo. A spirit? A remnant of a god? His blood echoes given a more vocal voice? Many guesses sprung forth, but none of them could be confirmed except the last. Whatever it was, Frost did not know what to do. But he knew that he could not ignore an object that was not of this world, that was from a realm of divinity. Rashomon seemingly had no protection that would stop intruders from entering and taking this strange piece of artifact, mistaking it for a valuable heirloom to sell for quick money.

Stepping forth, he took the floating lantern from its perch.

Then he looked around, the artifact in his hands giving him light. There were many questions he had. If Rashomon's accumulated information and lore did not provide, then he would have to continue on. But where should he start was the question…

* * *

 _The man was going to die. And for the first time in nearly ten years, he felt relief._

 _His name was inconsequential. He was nothing more than a hooligan that managed to make his way up the totem pole in the Talavera. He had done many things that would have made his past self disgusted at his current self. Once, he was just an idealistic teenager, the youngest of four brothers, who believed he could make a difference by rising up to the high society of Mistral. He would become a legislator, a council member, maybe even a secretary, one who governed the masses, and rise to a position where all of the good fortune was at. If not that, then he would secure a position where he could become a paragon of virtue, dedicating his life to cleaning up his community and improving the lives of those whose lives needed it._

 _Then the War happened._

 _His father was taken away to the front lines. His three older brothers soon followed. None of his extended family reached out to help. His mother died of heartbreak when the news of their fate came. Fear. Sorrow. Anguish. Resentment. Whichever it was that spurred him, he ran before the "recruiters" came. Recruiters, he had scoffed. They were **executioners**. Dressed in exquisite clothes that did not match their job, they came to every household, seizing any able-bodied person regardless of their age and gender to fight for the war. They called themselves Mibu, a derogatory term for a wild, untamed dog, and proudly branded themselves with it. And when they came, it was his turn to be drafted._

 _He ran away. A teenager, expected to die for a Kingdom that took away his family._

 _He ran. And ran. And ran. He ran without any thought where he would go. Then when he finally collapsed, he was "rescued" by them. And as all aspirants of the Talavera underwent, he underwent listlessly. Nothing mattered anymore._

 _Ten years passed by without him noticing._

 _Ten years of empty hedonism._

 _Ten years of drugged debauchery._

 _Still, by the end of it, no matter the pleasure he felt from the tasks, nothing mattered. He never found fulfillment._

 _Then he heard of a task to dispose of a threat towards the tribe. It was just one man. He gathered that this person had some valuable information that could cripple the tribe and thus, he needed to be taken out of the picture. It was just another day. He did not bother feeling sorry for the poor bastard._

 _Nighttime came. The target had settled in the house for a good few hours. His gathered group had just smoked the entire house with a great amount of lead and Dust, Nature's wrath. The ammunition was expendable. There was always more to raid from the tiny pockets of resistance against Mistral. He was instructed to go and retrieve the body with three others. With how the entire place looked, it looked like it was another night past and another task done._

 _Then when he went into the small house, he turned to his right. Eyes of brilliant blue stared at him._

 _There was a sudden tolling of a bell. A ringing that was not of this world. A sound so foreign that his mind felt nauseous. Then something invaded his mind. It bore a message that could not be ignored. That was when he knew:_

 _ **He would die tonight. And there was nothing he could do.**_

 _Once upon a time, the thought of death struck fear into his heart and suicide never crossed his mind. No longer. It was now a mean of release from this reality that played a cruel card on him. He could finally be reunited with his family. The thought of death was nothing more than liberating. All he had to do was make peace and accept that his destiny had come to an end._

 _So he did. He watched his "companions" die gruesomely, crying in horror as they did, and waited for his turn. And when the blade finally met his neck…_

 _A bell tolled once more in the evening, and granted Salvation._

– _A Talavera bandit's_ _final_ _thoughts,_ _swirling amongst the blood echoes_

* * *

 **-DarkAkatsuk1**


End file.
